by Luke Delaney
“If James is involved in anything that could damage the reputation of this institution, then I should be informed, Inspector,” Gibran argued. “Look,” he said, taking a conciliatory tone, the smile back in place, “a lot of people rely on me for their welfare and security in these uncertain times. It is my responsibility to protect their interests. The need of the many is greater than the need of the individual.”
“Meaning if Hellier looks like he’s going to be bad for business, you’ll throw him to the wolves,” Donnelly accused.
Gibran stared hard at Donnelly before speaking again. “James is very privileged to have both a detective inspector and a detective sergeant investigating what appears to be a minor theft.” He watched Sean and Donnelly look at each other; it was only a glance, but he noticed it. “Really, you didn’t think I was that stupid, did you?”
Sean had no answer and felt he needed to counter, to try and knock Gibran out of his stride. “What did you say you do here?” Sean asked. “International finance-what exactly does that mean?”
“Nothing the police need to be concerned about,” Gibran answered. “We help people and organizations raise capital for various business projects, no more. You know, oil people wanting to move into the building and property markets, property people wanting to move into the tech markets, and now and then someone literally walks in off the street with a brilliant idea but no funds. We’ll help them obtain those funds.”
“Well, that all sounds very noble,” Donnelly chipped in.
“We’re not part of the banking system,” Gibran assured them. “There’s no need for animosity here.”
Sean looked him up and down. He had no more he wanted to say. “Good-bye, Mr. Gibran. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
He could feel Gibran’s eyes watching them as they finally escaped into the lift, the streets below beckoning them. Sean needed to drag Hellier out of his natural comfort zone and into his world, away from protectors like Sebastian Gibran. Then and only then would they see the real James Hellier.
James Hellier stood by his office window looking down on the detectives in the street below. He was careful not to be seen. He paid special attention to Sean. He disliked him, sensed the danger in him, but he felt no anger toward him. In his own way he appreciated him-appreciated a worthy adversary who would make the game all the more fun to play. They thought they were clever, but they weren’t going to ruin things for him. He would make sure of it.
He cursed under his breath-somehow he’d been recognized at the damn nightclub and he wondered who by. He should have been more careful. It was unfortunate, but not entirely unexpected. He needed to stay calm. They had nothing on him. Police talk and threats meant nothing. He would wait and see if anything developed. He wouldn’t panic and run. There was no need. Not yet.
But he would have to be careful of Gibran too. Trust him to come and stick his nose in where it wasn’t wanted. He thought he was so fucking clever, senior partner at Butler and Mason, the self-appointed sheriff of the company. If it came to it, he would be long gone before Gibran found out. Gibran should remember who gave him a job at Butler and Mason in the first place. It was Gibran who personally checked his references, glowing reports from previous employers in the United States and Far East. Only thing was, not a single one of them was real. If Gibran had actually gotten on a plane to check Hellier’s background properly, he would have eventually discovered that Hellier’s previous employment history was a myth. But he knew Gibran would rely on telephone calls and e-mails, all of which were easily arranged, especially for someone like Hellier: he had friends in low places and dirt on some in high places. Gibran had been no more difficult to fool than any of the others. And while Hellier might never have been to university to study accounting or high finance, what he’d learned on the streets, what he’d learned in order to survive, had left him more than qualified to work anywhere he liked.
Hellier moved away from the window and sat back in his desk chair, his hands pyramided in front of his face. He liked his life, he liked all the privileges being James Hellier brought and the cover it provided for his other activities, past, present, and future. He wasn’t going to let Inspector Corrigan or, for that matter, Sebastian Gibran, spoil it for him now, not after all these years. He loved to play the game. He enjoyed the money, but it was the game he loved, and this one wasn’t lost yet.
Sean and Donnelly sat in their car outside Hellier’s office building. “Well?” Donnelly asked. “What d’you think about Mr. James Hellier? Did you get a feel for him?”
“He’s a smooth bastard,” Sean replied. “And so was his boss, for that matter. Like a couple of fucking clones. But Hellier, he’s trying to be something he’s not, whereas Gibran’s persona seemed genuine, effortless. We’ll have to watch out for him. He looks like the sort who’ll be wanting to stick his nose into our investigation. As for Hellier, behind the suit and haircut there’s an angry man.” He didn’t tell Donnelly about the animalistic odor he’d smelled leaking through Hellier’s skin. A musky smell, almost chokingly strong. The same odor he’d smelled on others in the past. Other killers. “But why is he so pissed off with the world?”
“Pissed off with the world?” Donnelly questioned. “I thought he was just pissed off with us.”
Sean realized he was moving too fast for Donnelly. “You’re probably right.” He needed to give Donnelly something more tangible, more logical. “But there are already two possible motives for him. First, he was having an intimate relationship with Graydon, and somewhere along the line it went wrong.”
“So we’re back to a lovers’ tiff?”
“Or,” Sean continued, “Graydon was blackmailing him and Hellier thought, probably correctly, the only way to make it stop would be to get rid of him. He’s a walking blackmail victim and Graydon liked nice things-remember his flat?”
“And the seventy-seven stab wounds?” Donnelly asked. Those needed explaining. “If he just wanted him out of the way, why not do it nice and neat-one shot, one well-placed knife wound, strangulation? Makes me favor a domestic bust-up.”
“No,” Sean reminded him. “Remember what Dr. Canning told us-the wounds were placed around the body, almost ritually, as if the killer wanted us to think it was a rage attack to get us chasing our tails looking for a jealous ex-boyfriend. Or even a motiveless stranger’s attack. That and the lack of forensics at the scene leave me thinking it was premeditated, which means blackmail was his most likely motivation. Or something else we haven’t thought of yet. Everything else was staged.”
Donnelly looked less than completely convinced. “Well, in the absence of anything better than a missing barman and a recently released homophobic homosexual, it’s worth running with, so long as you’re convinced Hellier has it in him to kill.”
“Let’s just say I get a very bad feeling about him,” Sean replied. “His attempted show of compassion made me feel sick. Everything about him seemed off, as if he was hiding behind the facade of being a happy family man.”
“Why are you so sure he was faking it? I thought he registered some real surprise that Daniel had been killed.”
“False sincerity. I’ve seen that too many times.”
Donnelly had worked with Sean long enough to know that sometimes it was best to simply accept his word and move on. “You’re a scary individual,” he said. “Now all we need is the evidence to prove your theory.”
“That’s the hard part, as always.”
“Arrest him. Search his house, office, car. Get a look at his bank accounts. Compare his prints and samples to anything and everything from the scene.”
“No,” Sean insisted. “I sensed no panic when we asked him about being in the flat. He knows he’s left it clean. Or maybe I’m wrong and he’s never been there. Anyway, we’re getting ahead of ourselves. I need to know more before I draw any lasting conclusions. Let’s have him followed for a while.”
“Round-the-clock surveillance?” Donnelly asked.
“Starting as soon
as possible,” Sean confirmed. “He may have missed something. Something that could betray him. If we’re lucky he’ll lead us to something that’ll hang him or at least give us grounds to dig further.”
“If we’re very lucky,” Donnelly pointed out.
“Right now we don’t have much else, so let’s start digging into his past. A man like Hellier doesn’t just appear. Have criminal and intelligence records checked, see if Mr. Hellier here hasn’t got some skeletons in his closet.”
“What about Inland Revenue, employment records, general background information?”
“Not yet. We haven’t got enough for production orders. Let’s stick to our own records first-see what we can turn up.”
“It’ll be done,” Donnelly told him. “Anything else?”
“Yeah,” Sean answered. “You take the car and get back to the office. Concentrate on tracking down the rest of the victim’s clients and let me know as soon as you turn up someone or something interesting.”
“Fine. And yourself?”
“I’m going to have a little chat with his wife.”
Sean took the tube from Knightsbridge to King’s Cross, noting all possible CCTV points that Hellier could have passed, including those covering the taxi rank outside the station, where Hellier probably hopped into a cab for the last leg of his journey home, although from here their journeys differed-Sean traveling the rest of the way by bus. Black cabs were an expensive luxury for him, not a realistic mode of transport. Not so for Hellier. Even so, it hadn’t taken him long to get to Hellier’s place: 10 Devonia Road, Islington, close to Upper Street and the Angel underground station.
Hellier’s house was another beautiful Georgian town house and looked like a much smaller version of the Butler and Mason office building. Sean was beginning to feel undervalued and underpaid, but at least the time alone had settled his racing mind and allowed him space to clear his thoughts. He bounced up the steps and gently tapped the chrome knocker twice. After an acceptable wait a woman opened the door. “Hello” was all she said. Sean had expected her to say more. He showed her his identification and tried to look as unofficial as he could.
“Sorry to bother you. I’m Detective Inspector Corrigan, Metropolitan Police.”
“Oh,” she replied, attempting to feign surprise. So Hellier had called and warned her. No matter. Sean had assumed he would-that wasn’t why he was here. He was here for a chance at a snapshot into Hellier’s life.
“Mrs. Hellier?” Sean asked, smiling.
“Yes. Elizabeth. Is there a problem?”
Sean was struck by how much she looked and sounded like a female version of James Hellier: tall, slim, attractive, well spoken, the product of finishing school and two skiing holidays a year, the best of everything her whole life, but unlike with Hellier he could sense her naiveté. Was that why Hellier had married her?
“Nothing to worry about,” Sean lied. “I’m just looking into an identity fraud case. We think someone may be trying to pass himself off as your husband, James.”
“Really?” she asked.
“I’m afraid so. They tried to make a substantial purchase in Harrods on Wednesday evening. I’ve already spoken to your husband and he says he was home all night with you. If you could confirm that, then I’ll know for sure the person we have in custody is lying to us.”
“But if you’ve already spoken to my husband, why do you need me to confirm he was at home?”
Naive, but not stupid, Sean thought. “I like to be thorough. Maybe we should discuss this inside,” he suggested, hoping to see Hellier’s things, to walk in the skin of James Hellier, even for a few minutes.
“That’s not really convenient right now. My children will be home from their tennis lesson any second. I wouldn’t want them to start worrying. I’m sure you understand. But I can tell you that James was here on Wednesday, although I hardly saw him. He was working in his office most of the night.”
Sean couldn’t stop himself from looking past her into the house and sensed her trying to grow large to prevent him. She wanted him to stay out of her family’s life.
“Of course,” he said. “I understand-and thank you. You’ve been very helpful. Well, I’ll leave you in peace.” He turned to leave, then quickly turned back, speaking before the door closed on the opportunity. “One more thing. .” He registered the annoyance on her face, the slight flushing of the facial capillaries, only minutely visible beneath her tanned skin. He waved his finger vaguely at the front of the house and spoke casually. “I was wondering, which room is your husband’s office?”
She stumbled. Clearly her husband hadn’t warned her to expect this type of question. “Does it matter?”
“No,” Sean replied, smiling. “Not really.” He waited, not moving, knowing she would give in to the silence.
“This one here,” she said, surrendering, pointing to one of the front ground-floor windows, eager to be rid of him.
“Ah,” he said. “If I had a house like this, that’s where I’d have my office too.” Satisfied, he knew it was time to leave. He had sown the seeds of doubt in her and she would sow the seeds of fear into Hellier. He imagined the panicked conversation she would have with her husband later that day, both questioning each other, doubting each other. “Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time. Good-bye, Mrs. Hellier. Tell James I said hello.” She didn’t respond. He heard the door slam before he reached the last step.
Sean made the long journey on public transportation from Islington back to Peckham, jealously watching the vast majority of his fellow commuters wearily heading off for the weekend while he was heading back to work, all thoughts of home and rest still just a distant hope. He’d had little more than six hours’ sleep in the last two nights and knew the next few days would be no better. Reminding himself to buy some caffeine pills, he used the public entrance to the police station and climbed the stairs to the incident room without acknowledging anyone. As he crossed the room toward his office he casually observed who was there and who was missing. He assumed those not there would be running down whatever inquiries Donnelly had assigned them. He entered his office and sat heavily in his chair. Within seconds Donnelly was at his open door, a heavy bundle of witness statements and completed actions cradled in his arms. He didn’t seem to feel the weight.
“How’d you get on with Hellier’s trouble and strife?”
“She’s lying for him,” Sean answered. “Said he was home all night. I got the feeling it wasn’t the first time she’s covered for him.”
“Aye, but does she know what we’re investigating?”
“Not unless Hellier’s told her, which I doubt.”
“So technically he has an alibi.”
“Yeah, but you could drive a bus through it. She said he was in his office all night, alone. It’s on the ground floor next to the front door. He could have slipped out and back easy.”
“But you don’t think he went home, do you?”
“No, I don’t,” Sean confirmed. “What have you turned up?”
“Well, from a criminal records point of view, Hellier’s as clean as a whistle. Not even a parking ticket, as far as I can tell. He’s been working at Butler and Mason for a few years now; before that he was working for some American company in New York, and prior to that he worked in Hong Kong and Singapore.”
“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 favor. As far as they’re concerned, he’s legit. Since being back in the UK he’s paid his taxes on time and up front, 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 mug shots 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 percent of the population don’t know the difference between a pedophile and a pediatrician.”
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 James’s flatmates 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 farther and farther away. It was going to be another long evening alone, with only the image of Daniel Graydon’s defiled body for company.
