Cold Killing

by Luke Delaney

  ‘Deal,’ Sally agreed.

  ‘Can I get you a drink? Or is that against the rules? I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.’ He gave Sally a boyish grin full of mischief. She already felt relaxed in his company.

  ‘Why not? Whatever you’re having will be fine.’

  Gibran nodded once at the nearby waiter, who scuttled away immediately. ‘The venison here is excellent,’ he informed her, ‘but a little fussy for my taste. You’ll find I’m a simple man with simple tastes, except when it comes to people, of course.’

  It seemed to Sally that he was trying to impress her with his modesty and down-to-earth attitude, despite his obvious wealth and influence. She was duly impressed, but she wasn’t about to let it show. Not yet.

  ‘So, what is it I can do for you, Sebastian?’

  ‘Straight to the point.’ He stalled while the waiter served Sally’s wine. ‘I hope you like it. Dominico here tells me it’s a very fine Sancerre and as I am nowhere near as well informed in these matters, I’m completely in his hands.’ Gibran waited for the wine waiter to leave before speaking again. ‘You must tell me if the wine’s any good, then I’ll know whether Dominico’s been ripping me off the last few years.’

  She took a sip and smiled at him, holding his gaze for a little too long. She concentrated on sounding businesslike. ‘It’s very nice, thank you. Now, why am I here?’

  ‘I wish I could say it was purely for pleasure, but I’m guessing you’ve already assumed that’s not the case.’

  ‘I’m a detective. I try not to make assumptions.’

  ‘Of course. Sorry,’ Gibran said with natural charm. ‘We’re here because we have a mutual interest in a certain party.’

  ‘James Hellier?’

  ‘Yes,’ he confirmed, his expression suddenly serious, the flirtatious, boyish personality evaporating in an instant.

  ‘Mr Gibran − Sebastian. If you’re here to try and somehow influence my opinion of Hellier’s involvement in this case, then I should warn you—’

  ‘That’s not my intention,’ Gibran insisted, tapping his glass while speaking. ‘I wouldn’t insult your intelligence. I thought you should know my feelings on the subject, that’s all.’

  ‘Your feelings on the subject would only be of interest to me if they were somehow relevant to our investigation. So, are they?’

  ‘To be honest, I’m not sure if it’s relevant or not. I just thought someone connected to the investigation should know, which is why I called you.’

  ‘Why didn’t you contact DI Corrigan?’

  ‘I get the feeling he’s not my biggest fan.’

  ‘Well, I’m here,’ Sally said with an air of resignation. ‘So what is it you think I should know about?’

  ‘How can I put this?’ Gibran began. ‘When James first came to us, he was a model employee. He served the firm above and beyond all expectations for several years.’ He paused. ‘However …’

  ‘However what?’ Sally encouraged.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Gibran shook his head. ‘It’s not in my nature to talk out of school. I would imagine it’s the same in your job: rule number one being to look out for each other.’

  ‘Well, you haven’t broken any rules yet, because so far you haven’t told me anything.’

  ‘And under normal circumstances I wouldn’t tell you.’ Gibran’s blue eyes drilled deeply into Sally’s, showing her a flash of his true power and status. She found him no less attractive for it. ‘It’s just that, lately, well, I’ve found his behaviour to be somewhat … erratic. Unpredictable. Troubling, even. Half the time I don’t know where he is, or who he’s with. He’s missed several high-profile meetings the last few weeks, all of which is out of character.’ Gibran appeared genuinely concerned.

  ‘When did you first become aware of this change in personality?’ Sally asked.

  ‘I suppose it started a couple of months ago. And now this latest episode, the police raiding our office, dragging James away like a common criminal. Not exactly the image we’re hoping to portray at Butler and Mason.’

  ‘No. I don’t suppose it is.’

  Gibran leaned across the table, and spoke quietly. ‘Do you really believe he killed that man? Is James capable of such a thing?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Sally asked.

  Gibran leaned away again before replying. ‘I’m not sure, to be honest. Not now. My head’s spinning a little at the moment. I’m coming under some fairly intense pressure from above to resolve this situation.’

  ‘Has something happened to make you feel that way?’

  Gibran sipped his wine before answering. ‘The other day, I went to James’s office to speak to him, to see what I could find out.’

  ‘I hope you haven’t been playing amateur detective,’ Sally warned him. ‘That could cause us procedural difficulties, especially if you’ve questioned him at all.’

  ‘No,’ Gibran replied hastily. ‘Nothing like that. But you should understand that I am responsible for a great many things at Butler and Mason and a great many employees. I am, if you like, Butler and Mason’s own internal police force. I will do whatever I have to do to protect the firm and the people within it. If James is putting either at risk, then …’ Gibran let his statement linger.

  ‘You do what you have to do. But make sure you don’t cross over into our criminal investigation. That would leave us both in a compromised position.’

  ‘I understand,’ Gibran assured her. ‘You’ve made yourself clear. I have no wish to fall out with the police, especially you.’

  ‘Good,’ Sally ended the debate. ‘So what did Hellier have to say for himself during this little chat you and he had?’

  ‘Nothing specific. He seemed very distracted.’

  ‘Not surprising,’ Sally said dismissively.

  ‘Indeed. But it was more a feeling I had,’ Gibran explained. ‘I’ve known James for several years and this was the first time I’ve ever felt … well, uncomfortable in his presence, even a little intimidated.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I almost felt as if for the first time I was meeting the real James Hellier, and that the person I’d known up till now didn’t really exist.

  ‘Tell me, Sally,’ Gibran asked, his tone suddenly light-hearted, ‘are you familiar with the work of Friedrich Nietzsche?’

  ‘I can’t say that I am,’ Sally admitted.

  ‘Not many people are.’ Gibran dismissed Sally’s lack of knowledge before it could make her uncomfortable. ‘He was a philosopher who believed in men being ruled over by a select group of benevolent supermen. Nonsense, of course. I was talking to James about it, trying to relax him, make him feel less like he was being interviewed, but I almost felt as if James believed in it. I mean, really believed it. He started talking about living his life beyond good and evil, as Nietzsche had decreed. Normally I would have dismissed it, but given all that’s happened, suddenly it sounded … sinister.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Like I said,’ Gibran replied, leaning back into his comfortable chair, ‘it was just a feeling.’

  ‘Well,’ Sally said after a long pause. ‘If you find or feel anything else, you know how to get hold of me.’

  ‘Of course.’ Gibran looked around him uncomfortably. ‘You take someone under your wing. You trust them, think you know them. Then all this happens.’ He sipped his wine. ‘He’s not the man I used to know. He may seem the same, but he’s different. To answer your original question: do I think James could be involved in killing those people? The truth is, I simply don’t know any more. The fact I can’t dismiss it out of hand is bad enough, I dread to think …’

  ‘One way or another, we’ll all know the answer soon enough.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said quickly, recovering herself. ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘Good,’ he declared. ‘Now that’s out of the way, we can enjoy our lunch. I do hope you don’t have to run off anywhere. It’ll make a change to h
ave a civilized lunch with someone who isn’t boring me out of my mind with their latest get-rich-quick idea.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m due a break. Besides, I don’t think I could stand the sight of another sandwich.’

  ‘Then here’s to you,’ he said, raising his glass slightly. ‘Here’s to us.’

  Sally returned the toast with a cautious smile. ‘To us.’

  ‘It must be difficult,’ said Gibran, suddenly cryptic.

  ‘What must?’

  ‘Learning how to use all that power you have without abusing it. I mean, I meet a lot of people who truly believe they’re powerful, but power through money and influence has its limits. Being a police officer, to have the power to literally take someone’s human rights away from them, to take their freedom from them – now that’s real power.’

  ‘We don’t remove people’s human rights; we can only temporarily remove their civil rights,’ Sally explained.

  ‘All the same,’ Gibran continued, ‘it must be very difficult.’

  ‘Maybe, at first. But you get used to it, and before long you don’t even think about it.’

  ‘I’m guessing it can make relationships with men very difficult. So many are intimidated by powerful women. We like to think the power is always with us, so to be involved with a cop would be, I guess, challenging.’

  ‘And are you?’ Sally asked. ‘Intimidated?’

  ‘No,’ Gibran answered, his face as serious as Sally had seen him. ‘But then again, I’m not like most men.’

  Sally looked at him for as long as she could without speaking, trying to read his thoughts. Gibran broke the silence.

  ‘One thing that’s always fascinated me,’ he continued, ‘is how people who seem to have been born to kill somehow find each other, as if they can recognize their own kind when they meet them: Hindley and Brady, Venables and Thompson, Fred and Rosemary West, and God knows how many others. How do they find each other?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Sally answered. ‘That’s my boss’s field of expertise. He’s a bit more instinctive than most.’

  ‘DI Corrigan? Interesting,’ Gibran said. ‘When you say he’s instinctive, what do you mean?’

  ‘Just that he seems to know things. He sees things that no one else can see.’ Sally suddenly felt uncomfortable discussing Sean with an outsider, as if she was somehow betraying him. Gibran sensed her mood.

  ‘An interesting man, your DI Corrigan. Do you think perhaps it’s his dark side that makes him so good?’

  Sally was impressed. It struck her that many of the same qualities she saw in Sean were present in Gibran. She decided that if Sean could ever get beyond his preconceived ideas of Gibran, he would probably like him.

  ‘DI Corrigan’s a lot of things, but I’ve never seen anything you would call a dark side. It’s more a question of him being willing and able to search for answers in those dark places the rest of us are too afraid to go, in case we see something about ourselves we don’t like.’

  Gibran nodded his understanding and approval. ‘It’s because he’s prepared to accept his responsibilities,’ he said. ‘And it sounds as if we have more in common than either of us understood. Perhaps when this is all over and he sees me for what I am and not what he thinks I am, we’ll have a chance to speak on friendly terms.’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Sally warned him.

  ‘No,’ Gibran answered, ‘I don’t suppose I will.’ Again they took a moment to look at each other silently before Gibran spoke again. ‘But there’s one thing I must make clear to you − I cannot and will not let anything or anybody put the reputation of Butler and Mason at risk. Of course, I respect the fact your police investigation must take priority, but other than that I will do what must be done to finish this matter with James one way or another, for better or for worse for him.’

  Sally glanced away for a second as if considering his words. Then she looked him in the eye. ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘You do that. Provided you tell us everything we need to know about Hellier, you have my word we won’t interfere in any internal decisions your company makes about him. But tread carefully, Sebastian, for both our sakes.’

  Hellier glanced at his watch. Almost five thirty p.m. The police had been deliberately slow in bailing him. DI Corrigan had been conspicuous by his absence. No matter. He had enough time. Just.

  He wore the clean clothes that Templeman had arranged. The police had seized the ones he’d been wearing and once again they’d emptied the wardrobe and drawers back at his house. They didn’t have much to take this time around. He was still in the process of refilling them after the first raid when they’d seized every item of clothing he possessed. Corrigan was costing him a fortune.

  There was no time to go home first. Never mind. He had done well to plan in advance. He had a change of clothes, his phone and the weapon waiting for him. Not that he was expecting a fight. He was the master of gaining instant control. Years of practice ensured that his strength was seldom matched. He feared nothing and nobody, but the gun was nice insurance all the same.

  He stood on the front steps of Peckham police station. He’d already exchanged farewells with Templeman, who had no idea how final Hellier had meant it to be. One more thing to take care of and then he would be gone. He didn’t anticipate needing Templeman’s services again.

  He scanned up and down the street. They were back. Did Corrigan never learn his lesson? Fine. If they wanted him to make fools of them again, he was happy to oblige. He looked for a black cab. This was Peckham. There were none. Realizing that he stood out far more than he wanted to, he began walking towards what passed for the centre of this south-east London suburb.

  Hellier entered the first mini-cab office he came across. A group of elderly, cheerful West Indian men sat around smoking and laughing loudly at some joke Hellier had just missed. One of the men spoke. He spoke slowly and thoughtfully, curbing his accent enough for Hellier to understand.

  ‘Yes, sir. What can I be doing for you today?’ he asked.

  ‘I need to get to London Bridge.’

  ‘No problem, sir. I’ll take you myself,’ the cabbie replied. Seconds later the car pulled away, and as it did so, six other cars and four motorbikes began to move with it. The driver was unaware he had become the focus of so much police attention, but Hellier knew they were there. Occasionally he stole a glance in the nearside wing mirror. He spotted one of the motorbikes, nothing else; but he didn’t have to see them to know they were there.

  ‘Lovely day,’ Hellier said to the driver.

  ‘Yeah, man,’ the driver beamed. ‘Just like being back in Jamaica.’ They both laughed.

  Sean was back at his desk, weighing up the options. So far he’d come up with a dozen what ifs, but none of them helped the investigation. None of them helped him. He’d had no choice but to let Hellier walk away on police bail. Taking a deep breath, he reminded himself to be patient. When the DNA results came back he could bury Hellier. He was certain of it.

  He rubbed his tired eyes with the sides of both fists. For a second he couldn’t see properly. When they cleared, he found himself focused on his computer screen, reminding him he needed to check his emails. It was the first chance he’d had to check his inbox. Amongst the dozens of emails there was one from SO11. The details of the telephone numbers from Hellier’s address book. He wasn’t in the mood to start ploughing through names and numbers; his quota of patience had been used up hours ago. He peered out into the main office, looking for anyone he could delegate it to, but everyone appeared busy. His conscience got the better of him and he started to read through the list himself.

  Most appeared to be the numbers of banks, both in the UK and abroad. Other numbers were of accountants, diamond dealers, gold merchants, platinum traders. Hundreds of names, but only a handful of personal numbers. He paid particular attention to these. He read through the names slowly and deliberately. Daniel Graydon’s number was there, as he’d expected: both his home and mobile num
bers. So what? It meant nothing, now that Hellier admitted knowing him. He checked for the names of the two other victims, Heather Freeman and Linda Kotler. He didn’t expect to find the runaway’s name, but perhaps Kotler’s. It wasn’t there. He was disappointed, but not surprised.

  The mini-cab dropped Hellier off on the outside concourse at London Bridge. He was delighted to see thousands joining the great commute home and even considered waving along the street at the police following him. He couldn’t see them, but he knew they would be able to see him. A little wave would get them thinking, but he resisted the temptation – this was no time to show off. Soon he’d be gone, but first he had some business to take care of. Top of the list being his mysterious friend.

  He’d considered leaving, not even bothering to meet the man, but he wasn’t a gambler. He only played when he could manage the risks, and that meant finding out what this man knew, if anything. Could he damage him? Hurt him? Hellier had to find out. No loose ends, he reminded himself. Leave things nice and tidy, just how he liked it. That didn’t mean there wasn’t time for one last thrill. One last indulgence.

  Hellier walked fast into the train station, ducking into WH Smiths, watching the main entrance through the magazine shelf, waiting for the surveillance team to enter. They were good, only one standing out as she scanned the crowds for him. Commuters never looked around. They were on auto-pilot. She stood out like an amateur, but the others were invisible.

  He took the other exit from the shop and walked back across the inside concourse and out the same exit he’d entered, all the while trying to remember the faces he passed. If he saw them again he would assume they were police. He crossed the short distance to the underground station, stopping suddenly at the top of the stairs and spinning around. No one reacted. A smile spread across his lips. They were very good indeed.

  Once again he descended into the underground that had served him so well in the past. He followed his normal anti-surveillance pattern, tactics designed to lose even the best: travelling short distances on trains and then stepping off at the last moment, walking swiftly through tunnels, past zombified commuters, on to another train and away again. Over and over he repeated the procedure, but they stayed with him, leaving him both annoyed and impressed. No matter. As always, James Hellier was one step ahead.