Cold Killing dsc-1

by Luke Delaney

  “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.”

  CHAPTER 9

  James Hellier left the Belgravia police station two hours later, only slightly annoyed at being kept longer than necessary. Feeling pleased with himself, he indulged in a little smile. He hoped his attorney hadn’t noticed.

  They walked along the road a short way. Hellier felt certain he was being followed by the police. No matter. No need to tell Templeman. No need to tell anyone.

  So the police had samples from his body. The detective constable had made sure the doctor was thorough: blood, saliva, semen, hair of various types. All for elimination purposes. All given voluntarily. The detective had had a strange name. Paulo Zukov. Hellier had been tempted to ask him if he was more wop than Slav, or the other way around. He had managed not to.

  Hellier and Templeman shook hands and went their separate ways. Templeman clearly had no notion that Hellier might be anything other than an innocent man dragged into somebody else’s mess. God bless lawyers. They pump them full of some serious self-importance bullshit in law school. They all think they’re in a John Grisham novel, protecting the innocent from their oppressors.

  They’d taken his fingerprints too. He’d known Corrigan was lying about finding prints on the victim’s money, even if his lawyer had not. It was unfortunate he had to give them, but he had foreseen it. It wouldn’t be a problem. It mustn’t be a problem. It wasn’t.

  Sean and Donnelly watched Hellier leave the same way they’d watched him arrive. They watched him shake hands with Templeman and move off. Hellier looked over his shoulder, back toward them, and walked on.

  Donnelly broke the silence. “He thinks we’re following him.”

  “Not yet, we’re not,” Sean replied. “I just got a message from Featherstone-surveillance starts tomorrow. What about the other men the victim had sex with? Have we spoken to all of them now?”

  “We have. They came forward of their own accord. They’re not happy about admitting to paying for sex, but not exactly ashamed either.”

  “Not like Hellier,” Sean stated rather than asked.

  “No. The others seem straightforward. They’ve provided statements, prints, and samples, no problem. None of the lads who interviewed them gets any sort of feeling. We’ll run them all through the system anyway, but no one looks interesting.”

  “Any sign of a boyfriend?” Sean asked. “No matter what I think of Hellier, I still have to consider that possibility.”

  “According to his friends, there was no boyfriend, now or in the recent past, other than the possibility he was seeing our missing barman, Jonnie Dempsey.”

  “And further back? No jilted john with an ax to grind?”

  “Apparently not. It appears Daniel was more careful with his private life than he was with his business one.”

  “Anything else?” Sean asked.

  “I took the liberty of sending out a national circular, asking if other forces have come across any murders similar to ours.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. Our little shop of horrors appears to be unique.”

  “So,” Sean said, “Hellier’s still our main man. Until I say different.” Donnelly opened the car door unexpectedly. “Going somewhere nice?”

  “I just want to check on Paulo. Make sure everything went okay.”

  “Don’t worry about Paulo. He knows what he’s doing.” Sean trusted Paulo. He trusted all his team.

  “All the same. I’ll not sleep tonight if I don’t check.”

  Sean wasn’t used to seeing Donnelly so concerned. “Okay, check. I’ll wait here. And ask him if he needs a lift.”

  Donnelly was gone. Sean watched him running across the road, dodging the traffic. He moved pretty well for a big man.

  DC Zukov waited for Donnelly in the basement toilet of the Belgravia police station. He was relieved to finally see Donnelly’s considerable frame enter, shrinking the room. Donnelly stopped in front of the large mirror and began to comb his scruffy salt-and-pepper hair with his hands.

  “There’s no one else in here. We’re fine,” Zukov assured him.

  “Then why are you fucking whispering?”

  Zukov spoke normally. “I don’t know. It’s just that I’m not used to talking to strange men in public toilets.”

  “I hope not, young man.” In an instant Donnelly’s tone became more serious. “Did you get what I asked for?”

  Zukov smiled. He put his hand in his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a small plastic evidence bag containing two hairs that only minutes earlier had been plucked from Hellier’s scalp. He handed it to Donnelly, who snatched it away. “I take it the official samples have been sealed accordingly?” he asked.

  “As you requested,” Zukov told him. “Everything’s been bagged and tagged properly. These are the little extras you wanted kept off the books.”

  “Good.” Donnelly opened an empty metal cigarette case and folded the bag carefully, making sure he didn’t bend the contents. He put the bag in the case and snapped it shut. He tucked it into his blazer pocket and patted it. “Just to be on the safe side. You never know when you’re gonna need a helping hand.”

  “You gonna leave them in Graydon’s place to be found by the forensics boys or you got some other idea how to use them?” Zukov asked.

  “I’m not going to do anything with them,” said Donnelly. “Not yet anyway.”

  “Why? What are you waiting for?”

  Donnelly puffed out his chest and raised himself to his full height. “Listen up, son. These are the three rules of life according to Dave Donnelly: Number one-never accept a bribe, no matter how skint you are. Number two-never fit up an innocent member of the public. Villains, fine, but never Joe Public. Number three-never, absolutely never, fit anyone up for murder unless you’re absolutely positive they did it and it’s absolutely necessary to get them off the streets. Understand?”

  “So you’re not positive Hellier’s our man?”

  “No. Not yet. He’s not our only suspect either, remember? Now drop this lot off at the lab before it closes, then run his fingerprints up to the Yard. The guv’nor wants them compared to marks from the scene tout suite, so don’t take no for an answer. Understand?”

  “Not a problem,” Zukov replied. “And what will you be up to?”

  Donnelly looked him up and down before answering. “Not that it’s any of your fucking business, but I thought I’d head back to the nick with the guv’nor, see if I can’t find out what’s going on in that head of his.”

  “Problems?” Zukov asked.

  “I’m not sure yet. Let’s just say I get the feeling the man’s not telling me everything he knows.”

  At about 5 P.M. Sean was back at his desk plowing through e-mails and paperwork, oblivious to the chatter and ringing phones in the incident room. A detective constable whom everyone called Bruce knocked on his door frame, somewhat startling him.

  “Fingerprints returning your call, guv’nor,” he said without enthusiasm, but Sean felt his heart jump and his stomach sink. He crossed the office and took the phone.

  “DI Corrigan speaking. You can give the results to me.”

  “I don’t have the results yet,” the anonymous voice replied. “The marks from the scene are still being worked up. Identification Officer Collins is working that case. He’ll run comparisons to your scene as soon as he can, starting with the various elimination prints you’ve sent us. If you’re lucky, they’ll be ready by Monday or Tuesday.”

  “This is a murder investigation,” Sean reminded him. “I need them yesterday.”

  “Sorry,” said the voice. “Monday or Tuesday is the absolute earliest they’ll be ready. Listen, we’re snowed under here
. Antiterrorist Unit just landed a rush job on us. We’ve been told to make it a priority, no exceptions. Sorry.”

  Sean understood. It was an unavoidable sign of the times “Okay. Thanks. You can get him to call me direct with the results. One more thing,” Sean quickly added before the line went dead. “Can you check for a set of conviction fingerprints for someone for me?”

  “Sure,” came the answer. “What’s the name?”

  Sean was unaware that Donnelly had moved within earshot. “James Hellier. Do you need a date of birth?”

  “No. The name’s probably unusual enough. Give me a minute.” Sean waited, the two or three minutes that passed feeling so much longer, before the voice finally spoke. “No. No prints for that name here.”

  Sean felt the emptiness of disappointment. “No problem,” he managed to say, and hung up.

  Donnelly cut through his state of melancholy. “Interesting line of inquiry.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Asking Fingerprints if Hellier had a set of conviction prints on file, given that we already know he doesn’t have any convictions. Remember, I checked.”

  “I thought I’d double-check,” Sean said. “I thought maybe his conviction never got sent from the court, or someone forgot to put it on the Police National Computer. Worth a try.”

  “I see, belt and braces, eh. Any luck?”

  “No,” Sean answered. “Hellier’s clean.”

  Hellier sat in his study watching for movements in the American money markets on his computer. His wife popped her head around the door without warning, but she wouldn’t enter fully before asking. Elizabeth knew when to leave him alone; it was part of her role as the perfect wife, and she was paid well. She liked her life.

  “Are you okay in here, darling?” she asked.

  “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just catching up on a bit of work. I won’t be long. Promise.” He threw her a charming smile.

  “You work too hard. It’s almost ten o’clock.”

  “Go to bed. I’m fine.”

  “Don’t stay up too late, darling.”

  “I won’t.”

  His wife blew him a kiss and left. Time to make a phone call.

  Hellier slid his hand under the desk and peeled a piece of tape from the underside. He examined the two keys stuck to the tape, then pulled one free and carried it across the office to the built-in walnut cabinets. He listened for sounds outside the office before opening the cabinet door and kneeling on the floor. He pulled the carpet back to reveal a floor safe sealed into the concrete foundation of the house. He unlocked the safe with one of the keys and took out a small address book. He locked the safe, closed the cabinet, and went back to his desk. He found the number he was looking for and dialed. After a few ringing tones the phone was answered by a sleepy voice. “Hello? Hello? Christ.”

  Hellier spoke. “It’s me. Don’t you recognize my voice?”

  Hellier was met by silence. Then the voice spoke with urgency. “Please tell me you’re calling from a public phone.”

  Hellier could hear the fear. “Don’t worry about that. We’ve more important things to discuss.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like are you sure you took care of things? You wouldn’t have been lying to me, would you?”

  “Jesus Christ. Why are you asking me this? I took care of it. I told you. Why the panic? Have you fucked up?” The voice sounded calmer.

  “No, but your flat-footed friends are making trouble for me. It’s important I know you did what you were paid to do.”

  The voice was silent. Hellier gave the person time to think. After a few seconds the voice returned, almost whispering now, nervous. “Christ! They haven’t connected you to Korsakov, have they?” The mention of that name made Hellier lean back into his comfortable chair and smile, as if he was recalling a happy childhood memory. Stefan Korsakov. A name he hadn’t heard in ages. “Have the police connected you to Korsakov?” the voice demanded impatiently.

  “No,” Hellier answered, still calm and smiling, “and they never will. Korsakov’s never coming back. I made sure of that a long time ago. Don’t you remember? You should. After all, you helped me bury him.”

  The voice snapped back. “If you’ve fucked up, you’re on your own. I won’t help you again.”

  Hellier needed to remind him. “If they take me down, I’ll make sure you come with me. Keep that in mind.” He hung up before the voice could answer.

  The voice had sounded genuine enough. Time would tell if he was speaking the truth. For both their sakes, Hellier hoped he was.

  CHAPTER 10

  Sunday

  Shortly before 8 A.M. Sean arrived at work and Sally pounced on him immediately. “Guv’nor.”

  “What is it, Sally?”

  She spoke in a whisper. “Superintendent Featherstone’s been floating around asking for you.”

  Sean rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the warning.” No sooner had he entered his office than he heard a knock on the side of the open door. He walked to his chair and sat down before looking around. “Morning, boss. Aren’t you supposed to be at church?” He pointed to a chair.

  Featherstone accepted the invitation, sinking into the visitor’s chair with a slight groan. He was a tall man, over six feet two, heavily built, with red hair. “I haven’t been to church since my second wife left me.” He spoke with no more than a trace of London in his accent. “How’s the Graydon investigation going? Any progress for me?”

  Featherstone had hardly any detective experience, rising instead through the ranks as an accelerated-promotion candidate, but he had hit a ceiling at superintendent after failing or refusing to become one of the new generic breed of senior officers in the Met. He was a little too rough around the edges; a little too outspoken, and far too prepared to get his hands dirty. Realizing he could go no higher, he transferred into the Criminal Investigation Department.

  Sean could do business with the man. He knew that Featherstone was shrewd enough not to interfere too much with the way Sean conducted his investigations and that he would watch Sean’s back more than most.

  “We’re still waiting on forensics and fingerprints.”

  “How about other lines of inquiry? Any witnesses?”

  “We’ve spoken with a number of witnesses from the club. Some have supplied statements and elimination samples. Nothing of interest so far. The killer went to a lot of trouble to avoid leaving forensic evidence at the scene. It looks premeditated. Our best chance for now seems to be James Hellier, the potential blackmail target.”

  “Any solid proof yet that the victim was blackmailing him?”

  “No. Hellier’s clever. He’s covered his tracks well. That’s why I requested authorization for round-the-clock surveillance-it could be our only hope of catching him out.”

  “What about the victim?” Featherstone asked. “If you can turn up some blackmail letters, prove he was trying to screw Hellier, then you’d be halfway there.”

  “Nothing on paper from the victim’s flat. The techs have his computer, but it’ll take time to recover his e-mails.”

  “Any other credible suspects?”

  “Well, one of the barmen from the club’s gone missing. Apparently he knew the victim and possibly could have been romantically linked to him. Other than that we’re trying to find a recently released nutter who did eight years for the attempted murder of a young gay man. He lives close enough to the scene to be a cause for concern. He also appears to have gone missing.”

  “At the very least they need to be found and eliminated.”

  “They will be.”

  “We need to be careful with this one, Sean. You can bet, with a gay victim, someone, somewhere will be watching the investigation’s progress, waiting for a chance to accuse us of being homophobic. Let’s not hand the media a stick to beat us with.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” said Sean.

  “Speaking of the media,” Featherstone asked, “what about an appeal? Crimewatch? Save
some shoe leather and let the television do the donkey work.”

  “It’s a bit too soon for that. I’d rather no one knew what we’re up to just yet.”

  “You still camera shy?” Featherstone smiled. “If it comes to it, I can take care of that side of things. I know you’re not exactly a fan, but I’ve got some people in the media I can trust. We can do a piece for the papers and try to get a slot on Crimewatch. I’ll have my secretary make a few calls.”

  “No need. I’ll get it arranged and let you know when the telly people want you. Should be able to sort it out in a day or so.” Sean hoped he’d bought some time.

  Featherstone got to his feet. “Fine. Let my secretary know the time and place and I’ll be there. You can give me a full briefing beforehand.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “I’d better get myself up to the Yard. Commissioner’s called an emergency meeting. On a Sunday-can you believe that?”

  “Sounds like trouble.”

  “Bloody Territorial Support Group, kicked the shit out of some student on the last anticapitalist march. Turns out the kid’s parents are connected, so now we’re all going to be issued with foam truncheons. Wankers.” Featherstone looked to the heavens and walked from the office heading for the exit.

  Sally appeared at Sean’s door. “Problems?”

  “No,” Sean told her. “Not yet.”

  Donnelly ate his sausage sandwich. It was the best Sunday-morning breakfast he could hope for under the circumstances. He stood close to the small wooden hut in the middle of Blackheath where he’d bought the sandwich. It was a well-known spot, used mainly by hungry taxi drivers and police looking for a place to talk without being overheard.

  He enjoyed the gentle cooling breeze that whipped off the flat, wide heath. In winter, it was the coldest place in London. He spotted the dark blue Mondeo pull up opposite. Detective Sergeants Jimmy Dawson and Raj Samra stepped from the car. They could only have been police.