Cold Killing

by Luke Delaney

  The door to her bedroom is ajar. I begin to push it slowly open with my left arm. It swings gently aside. I can see her. Lying in her bed. She’s wearing a pyjama top. The only bed linen is a white sheet. It’s still too warm for more. The sheet only covers her from the waist down. I suspect she’s wearing underwear to make her feel less vulnerable.

  I cross the bedroom. She hasn’t closed the blinds properly. The street lights cast a long shadow of me as I walk towards her.

  I reach her and stand by the bed. She hasn’t sensed me yet. I watch her breathing. Her skin looks metallic in the dark. Like the black-grey metal of a gun. Her chest rises and falls gently, but I can tell she is not yet in a deep sleep. I am surprised she hasn’t woken. I stand and wait.

  She turns on to her back and stops. Her eyes begin to open. She sees me and blinks a couple of times. She seems to recognize me. Her mouth is open in surprise, but she doesn’t scream or speak. The surprise is overwhelming her.

  She becomes fully awake. I see the fear spread across her face. I smash my right fist into it. She begins to turn before impact and the blow hits her full in her left cheek. I think I feel the bone break. She makes a funny little noise.

  Before she regains her senses I grab her around the throat with my left hand and lift her upwards and backwards with one arm. I crash the back of her head into the wall and let her fall unconscious back on to the bed. I watch her for a few seconds. She’s still alive. Good.

  I move back across the bedroom to a set of drawers. I take a handful of her tights back to the bed. There’s some blood coming from the back of her head, but not too much.

  I take the gaffer tape from the rucksack and tear off a six-inch strip. I fasten it across her mouth. I turn her on to her stomach, turning her head to the side so she can breathe.

  I take a pair of tights and tie them tightly around her neck, although not too tightly. I attach these to another pair that I draw straight down her back. I bend both legs so they are folded back on themselves. I connect them to the tights running down the centre of her back.

  Lastly I use another set to tie her hands at the wrists, also behind her back. These I don’t connect to the other bindings.

  I take the knife I found in the kitchen and use it to slice her pyjama top open along her back then rip it off her. She is wearing knickers as I suspected. I cut them on both sides and pull them away. I step back and admire my work. She lies naked and trussed.

  I wait patiently. She groans. She’s regaining consciousness. This time her eyes don’t flicker open gradually. They spring shockingly wide in an instant. As if awakening from a nightmare. But she’s not. She’s awakening into a nightmare.

  She had no idea how long she’d been unconscious for. Her mind woke a split second before the rest of her body. When the body caught up her eyes fired open. Jesus, God please help me.

  She desperately needed to fill her lungs with air, but couldn’t. Something was across her mouth. She tried again to open her jaws. It was no use. She couldn’t tell what it was, but it hurt. She breathed through her nose instead, but it was impossible to get enough air into her lungs. Tears and mucus had narrowed her nasal passage. If she panicked now she would suffocate to death.

  Had she been raped? Why had he left her like this? For the first time since regaining consciousness she felt the pain in her cheek. It was an excruciating dull, throbbing pain. Her left eye was already swollen shut. It was so painful it masked the pain at the back of her head completely.

  She tried to get up off the bed. Simultaneously something tightened around her throat and ankles. She tried to move her hands. Something tightened around her wrists. She felt around with her fingers as much as possible. She realized they were touching her own feet. She’d been tied like a dead animal. She became aware of her own nakedness. The panic that could so easily kill her began to rise to new levels as the horror of what could have happened while she was unconscious dawned.

  She heard a lamp being switched on. The room was flooded with a soft red light. She didn’t recognize it. She didn’t have red lighting in the room. A gloved hand slipped under her jaw and twisted her head around towards him. She gripped her eyes as tightly closed as she could. She couldn’t bear to look at him. She didn’t want to see him.

  He said nothing. Just held her and waited. Her breathing was terribly fast and erratic, as if she was having an asthma attack. Slowly she began to open her eyes. There was enough light to see.

  She looked into his face. It took a few seconds to recognize the man. He looked different and had something over his hair. It was him. The policeman. Sean. She stopped breathing, trying to comprehend what was happening. She almost began to feel relieved. She knew this man.

  She saw a spark of red light reflect off the blade of his knife. He moved so quickly and surely. She was still lying on her stomach. He pointed the knife at her swollen eye. She tried so hard not to cry, but she wasn’t strong enough to stop the tears that began to stream down her face. They made her damaged eye sting and burn.

  He brought his face close to hers. He spoke quietly into her ear.

  ‘If you do as I say, you will live. If not, you die.’

  It was the most exquisite experience of my life. The others were wonderful, but this was so much better. To spend so much time with her before she died. To watch her writhing naked in front of me, fighting with her bindings. At first she cried constantly. I could hear her muffled pleas, but I ignored them. I couldn’t hear what she was saying clearly. It was a shame. I would have very much liked to have heard what she was saying.

  After I bound and gagged her I tortured her for a while. Then I put on two extra-strength condoms and entered her. I’d already shaved off all my pubic hair, so there was no chance of leaving them a hair sample. I told my wife I had a suspected hernia and the doctor had asked me to shave myself before he examined me. The stupid bitch will believe anything I tell her.

  With her face twisted to one side, I could see her profile. She looked shocked when I entered her. As if she just couldn’t believe I could do this to her. If she knew me better, she wouldn’t have been so surprised. The more she struggled, the harder I pulled on the stocking that ran down her back. As I pulled, the bindings tightened simultaneously, drawing her legs further up her back as the thin nylon tightened around her throat. All her crying had released the mucus in her nasal cavity, making disgusting noises as she tried to draw breath. It was distracting and spoiling my experience. I hadn’t pictured that she would be so disgusting. I told her she had to stop sniffling or she would die. Once she’d stopped I loosened her harness and allowed her body and head to fall back to the bed.

  I had never felt so powerful. I was magnificent above her, on top of her, holding her in the harness made from her own clothing, her face pressed into the mattress. I consumed all of her. As I reached orgasm I pulled the bindings as hard as I could, my eyes shut in ecstasy. When I opened them again she was dead. Her own urine ran down the inside of her legs − even in death the bitch tried to spoil it for me.

  I let my penis go flaccid while it was still inside her before carefully pinching the ends of the condoms and pulling myself out. She slumped to the floor on her side. Very carefully I removed the condoms, my flaccid penis falling into my waiting hand, warm and slippery with sperm and spermicide, the feel of it in my hand causing the excitement to return, but there was no time for any more fun here. I put the condoms into a self-sealing freezer bag and then into my rucksack. I took the tape off her mouth and put that into another self-sealing bag. I would have so liked to have been naked myself, but it was too dangerous. I must work out how to be naked next time, without leaving a treasure chest of evidence.

  I pulled my tracksuit trousers up and grabbed the rucksack. I checked the room and saw the dressing gown was still over the lamp. It had given off a delicious light, making her pale skin appear blood red. No need to remove it. The drawer I had taken the tights from was open too. No need to close it. There was a slight blood s
mear on the wall behind the bed. No need to clean it.

  I moved quietly across the flat to the bathroom, leaving the same way I came in. I want the police to find it, so considered leaving it open, but decided that might be too obvious. My muscles have grown somewhat tired by now, but I have enough strength to hold on to the drainpipe with one arm while I move the catch back to the locked position. I make sure I leave enough scratches on the latch so even the police can find them.

  I climb down the drainpipe as quietly as a spider on a thread. I strip off the clothes worn in the flat and put them in large bin liners. These in turn I place inside the rucksack. My other clothes wait in their neat pile for me. I take my time to dress. No need to hurry. I enjoy the calm I feel spreading beautifully through my body and mind, feeling a hundred times more powerful than I did before my visit. The warm night air wraps around my body like smoke around a smouldering log. I put the bag over my shoulder and head towards Shepherd’s Bush, although I’ll keep walking for a few miles yet before catching a night bus far enough away that it’ll never be checked by the police.

  I will go visiting again soon and next time will be the greatest yet.

  18

  Thursday morning

  Sean, Sally and Donnelly were back in Sean’s office. They were assessing the feedback from Sally’s appearance on Crimewatch and Sean’s press conference. It wouldn’t take long. The phone lines hadn’t exactly been set on fire − a couple of teenage prank calls and a few rough descriptions of men seen in the area of Daniel’s flat, possibly on the night of the murder, maybe not. Far from a deluge of information.

  They’d expected as much: Hellier was too cautious to have allowed himself to be seen by witnesses at that time of night. But at least the dedicated surveillance team was back, so Hellier wouldn’t slip away quite so easily again.

  Donnelly was called to the phone. He crossed the office, took the receiver from a young detective constable.

  ‘Dave Donnelly.’

  ‘DS Donnelly? How you doing?’ Donnelly didn’t recognize the voice. ‘I’m a friend of Raj Samra. He said you wanted a call if anything out the ordinary came up. Said you wanted a call before anyone else.’

  ‘That was my request.’ Donnelly was naturally suspicious. He didn’t know this man who was doing him a favour. He wasn’t about to let himself be set up. ‘Sorry, I don’t think I caught your name.’

  ‘DS John Simpson. SCG out west. Murder Investigation Team.’

  ‘Can I call you back in a minute?’ Donnelly asked.

  ‘Sure,’ Simpson replied. ‘I’m on a mobile. Want the number?’

  Donnelly scribbled the number on a small notepad. He wasted no time in calling Raj Samra. He confirmed DS John Simpson existed. He vouched for him too. That was good enough. Donnelly called him back.

  ‘DS Simpson.’

  ‘Sorry about that. I was right in the middle of something,’ Donnelly lied. ‘So, what have you got that may interest me?’

  There was a worrying pause before Simpson answered. ‘A body. But I think you’d better come and see for yourself.’

  Donnelly thought hard for a few seconds. Should he go? Was he sure enough yet? Probably not. ‘Okay,’ he answered. ‘I’ll come and take a look. Unofficially for now.’

  ‘I understand,’ Simpson reassured.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘It’s a flat over in Shepherd’s Bush. Seventy-three D, Minford Gardens.’

  DC Zukov saw Donnelly appear on the pavement outside the crime scene and head towards him, moving nimbly, looking naturally strong. He stamped his cigarette out as Donnelly got closer.

  ‘You got one of them for me?’

  Zukov pulled a squashed packet of Marlboro Lights from his trouser pocket. Donnelly seemed paler than usual. ‘Well?’ Zukov asked. ‘Did you do it?’

  Donnelly lit up and took a deep drag. ‘No.’

  Zukov went quiet. He looked Donnelly up and down. Had the big man lost his bottle? ‘Why not?’ he finally asked.

  ‘Because I’m not sure, that’s why.’

  ‘You’re not sure it’s linked?’ Zukov asked.

  ‘Oh, it’s linked,’ Donnelly said. ‘I’m sure all three are linked.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’ Zukov was pushing way more than he’d done before. He wanted this done. He wanted to be part of a successful murder inquiry and he didn’t want to wait any longer.

  ‘I’m not sure Hellier is our man.’ He tossed the cigarettes back to Zukov. ‘Do you live alone?’ he asked.

  ‘Why?’ Zukov answered.

  ‘Just answer the question.’

  ‘Yeah. I live alone.’

  ‘Good,’ Donnelly said. ‘Then you won’t have to worry about somebody stumbling across this.’ He pulled the small sealed evidence bag containing Hellier’s hairs from the cigarette case he’d been concealing it inside. ‘I’m sick of carrying it around. Take it home with you and remember to keep it in your fridge. That way they’ll look fresh. I’ll tell you when I need them again.’ Zukov took the bag without complaining. ‘Now piss off and find us some coffee,’ Donnelly told him. ‘I’ve got a phone call to make.’

  Sean moved to the rear of his car and pulled a full forensic suit from the boot. He struggled into the blue overalls before showing his warrant card to a severe-looking female uniformed officer guarding the cordon. He told her he was from the Murder Squad, he just didn’t tell her which one. He could feel the forensic team and local detectives watching him − they’d probably guessed he was the reason they’d been kept out of the scene. Their important work was being delayed and it was his fault.

  He walked along the driveway towards the front door of number seventy-three Minford Gardens, his focus intensifying on the half-open front door. He felt tunnel vision overtaking, the usual surreal feeling that accompanied him when he approached a murder scene.

  He gave the constable guarding the front door his name and rank. The constable didn’t ask why Sean needed to enter the scene. He should have. Sean began to climb the communal stairway to the first-floor flat. He could already smell murder.

  Love, hate, terror were tangible things. Real things, not simple emotions. They left overpowering traces of themselves wherever they called. The horror and fear of the previous night had seeped out from the flat and stained the surrounding area with its overpowering odour. It was in the wallpaper, the cheap worn-out carpet. Now it was all over Sean. In his clothes, his hair. The longer he stayed in this place, the deeper it would penetrate him, and before too long it would be in his blood. Then he would feel cold and displaced all day until he could get home and shower, be with Kate, be with his children. And even then he might not be able to find his way back to the comfortable world most lived in.

  He climbed the stairs silently. He could hear quiet, muffled voices coming from inside flat number seventy-three D. At least the detectives at the scene were showing respect for the dead. It wasn’t always the case. He reached the front door. One last deep breath, and he knocked gently on the door frame. The two men standing in the narrow hallway turned to face him. They were both wearing full forensic suits. Sean was relieved.

  ‘Hello, gentlemen.’ He was being as polite as he knew how. He had the rank, but he was the outsider. ‘DI Sean Corrigan. SCG South. My sergeant tells me you have a scene that may be of interest to us.’

  ‘Guv’nor,’ DS Simpson said. He seemed affable enough. ‘Come in, please.’ He and the other detective offered Sean rubber-gloved palms. They all shook hands. The other detective introduced himself as DC Zak Watson. Even in his forensic suit Sean could tell he was built like a boxer. Scarring to both his eyebrows suggested he’d been no stranger to the ring.

  ‘I read your circulation,’ DS Simpson said. ‘Said you were interested in anything out of the ordinary. Well, I’ve never come across a scene like this. I’ve been unfortunate enough to work dozens of murders, but this one’s …’ He struggled to find the appropriate words and gave up trying. ‘Anyway. Your circulat
ion said contact you if we find anything out the ordinary and this is certainly that.’

  Sean was looking around the hallway. Everything seemed normal. No signs of disturbance. No tipped-over furniture or ornaments. No blood smeared or sprayed on the walls. DS Simpson saw him checking it out.

  ‘The whole place is like that. Nothing out of place. Nothing at all. Except the bedroom. It all seems to have happened in there.’ He looked along the corridor to the room at the end. Sean followed his gaze.

  There was no metallic scent of blood. Clearly she hadn’t been stabbed or cut. Something else. He could smell the faint odour of urine. He assumed from the victim. Had she fouled herself before or after she died? If it was before, then something, someone had frightened her enough to make her lose control of her bladder.

  Sean wouldn’t rush his questioning of the two detectives. He wanted to jump to the end, but he wouldn’t. Keeping it chronological was the key to not losing yourself. Follow the timeline. It helped build up a clearer picture of how the horror had come and gone.

  ‘How did he get in?’ Sean asked. He meant the killer.

  ‘Not sure,’ DS Simpson replied. ‘We haven’t had a proper look around yet. We’ve been keeping everyone out, as you requested, so forensics haven’t had a chance to help us with that.’

  ‘Anything obvious?’ Sean asked.

  ‘Forced entry? Nothing we can see. The door was locked and all windows are secure.’

  ‘It was warm last night,’ Sean said. ‘But she kept the windows shut?’

  DS Simpson shrugged. ‘We’re only on the first floor here. I’d probably keep the windows shut myself.’

  Sean nodded in agreement. ‘Who raised the alarm?’

  ‘Her work,’ DS Simpson replied. ‘Apparently she was a real early bird. A bit of a workaholic. They expected her to turn up around eight, if not before. When she hadn’t arrived by nine thirty they rang her. No answer, mobile or home. No problems reported on her Tube line and she hadn’t suggested she would be late or taking the day off, so they began to get a little concerned.