Cold Killing dsc-1

by Luke Delaney

  “Nah, but be aware. The guv’nor’s on his way.”

  So what makes you think Method Index can help with your murder?” DC Williams asked. “Unusual, is it?”

  “A little unusual,” Sally replied. “The victim was stabbed an excessively large number of times, having already been half killed with a couple of blows to the head. The weapon used was an ice pick or stiletto knife of some sort. More important, the victim was a homosexual. Almost certainly a male prostitute.

  “I’m not interested in someone with a history of homophobic behavior per se. I’m looking for something heavier. Really violent attacks. Possibly sexual attacks or attacks that could have some sexual overtones. Anything like that. Can you help?”

  “We can work with that. As for the drunken queer-bashing stuff, we wouldn’t have that sort of attack on our records anyway. Not distinct enough.”

  DC Williams walked over to a large gray cabinet in a corner of the office. He talked as he thumbed through the files within. “Some of our records go back fifty years or so. The really sensitive ones. Preferred methods of terrorists, professional hit men, that sort of thing. But mostly our records refer to sex offenders, pedophiles. People most likely to reoffend. We don’t have too many murderers. Most are such dull affairs, one-off acts of stupidity. But you would already know that.”

  Sally was relieved. She didn’t fancy spending the entire day reading through ancient files in the cramped office.

  “We’ve got only a few hundred on record,” Williams added, grinning. Sally slumped. “Shouldn’t take too long if we both look through them.”

  He pulled out as many files as he could manage and carried them to Sally’s desk. “That’s the last decade of interesting murders of homosexuals. Unfortunately, most of our records haven’t been transferred onto the computer system yet, so if you have a look at this little lot, I’ll see what we have on our computerized records.” He began to whistle as he tapped away on the terminal’s keyboard.

  Sally took off her jacket and pushed all the files to one side of the desk. She picked the first one at random and began to read.

  Hellier knew they were there. He could sense their presence. He couldn’t see them from his study, but it made no difference. They were there. They were good. Not clumsy. Not impatient. He wondered how many would be on the surveillance team. They called the officers on motorbikes “solos.” Pathetic police jargon. Still, he had a problem. Things would get difficult if he was followed everywhere by these flat-footed fools. DI Corrigan was responsible, no doubt. Christ, he was an irritating fucker. How best to deal with DI Corrigan?

  Time to make another phone call. Maybe he would go for a run a little later, weaving through the Sunday crowds in Upper Street’s antiques market before jumping on and off a few buses and underground trains, laughing at the police as they struggled and ultimately failed to keep up with him.

  He spoke to the police he couldn’t see.

  “I hope you’re prepared for a long day, fuckers. You’ll have to improve your play if you want to win the prize.”

  Sally carefully read the first dozen files. It was clear why these particular murders had been deemed unique enough for Method Index’s files of infamy. Some were almost funny they were so bizarre, but most were just horrific.

  Her thoughts began to drift to the victims. Had they had any idea of what was going to happen to them? Had they been scared, confused, or even angry once they realized death was upon them? And why had they been selected? What had drawn their killers to them? The way they looked, moved, or spoke? Or was it pure bad luck? The wrong place at the wrong time? Probably a little of each.

  She’d been reading for over three hours. A couple of times something pricked her attention, but each time her interest faded away as she uncovered details inconsistent with what she was looking for. DC Williams’s voice broke her concentration.

  “DS Jones. .”

  “What is it?” Sally asked.

  “I think you should take a look at this. I may have found something.”

  Sean had joined up with Donnelly and Zukov. The three men sat quietly in the unmarked Mondeo. Sean sat in the back staring out of the window, constantly reevaluating the evidence, searching for anything he could have overlooked. The radio crackled into life with the voices of the surveillance team. “Target one still stationary in blue.”

  “Lima Two breaking for a natural.”

  “Received, Lima Two.”

  “Lima Three will cover.”

  “Received, Lima Three.”

  Donnelly spoke for them all. “If Hellier moves off, I hope they stop chattering in that language of theirs, because I for one can’t understand a bloody word they’re saying.”

  Sean’s mobile rang. He answered it quickly. “DI Corrigan.”

  “Guv’nor? Sally here.”

  Sean sensed an increased degree of excitement in her voice. “You sound like you have something for me.”

  “I think I might have.”

  Sean checked his watch. It was almost lunchtime. He was hoping to spend most of the day following Hellier. He felt as if the longer he was close to the man, the more he could think like him. “Can it wait till morning?”

  “I suppose so,” Sally answered.

  It was no good though and he knew it. If he didn’t find out what Sally had, he would never rest. “Can you give it to me on the phone?”

  “Sorry, sir. I’m driving and I need to show you this file. You’ll want to see it.”

  “Okay,” he conceded. “Dave and I will meet you back at Peckham as soon as we can. Traveling time from Islington.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Developments?” Donnelly asked over his shoulder.

  “Possibly. We need to get back to the office and meet Sally. The surveillance boys can handle this on their own.”

  Their car pulled into the heavy North London traffic and slipped away seemingly unnoticed.

  Sean leaned against the window frame. Sally sat on a standard-issue police station chair, wooden and rickety. Donnelly also chose to stand.

  Sally rested a cardboard folder in her lap. She reminded Sean of a schoolteacher about to read a story. “I dug this out of Method Index’s files earlier today,” she told them. “We entered the details of our murder into the system, looking for any similar crimes or methods. Eventually it threw up this character.”

  Sally opened the folder and pulled out a criminal records file. “This is for a guy called Stefan Korsakov.” She passed the printout to Sean, who quickly scanned the list of convictions. It didn’t take long.

  “Why? The man’s only got one conviction. For fraud. And that was almost ten years ago.” Sean was puzzled. He shook his head and passed the printout to Donnelly.

  Sally continued: “Conviction, yes, but Method Index doesn’t only go on convictions. Here-” Sally pulled a thick bunch of papers from the folder. Sean recognized the old-style forms. “Stefan Korsakov was accused of raping a seventeen-year-old boy back in 1996. The victim had a slight learning difficulty. Nothing serious apparently, but it made him a little naive.

  “Korsakov approached the boy while he was riding his bike around Richmond Park. He befriended him, gave him a can of beer laced with a stronger alcohol, then dragged him into a secluded area of the park, tied him up, gagged him, and sexually abused him in just about every way possible, climaxing with the actual rape.

  “But the fact that this was a violent assault by a predatory older male wasn’t the only similarity. He used a stiletto knife to threaten the boy.”

  “Similar to the weapon used on our victim,” Sean said.

  “Well, well,” Donnelly added.

  Sally wasn’t finished. “But Korsakov’s luck ran out. He spent too long with the boy. A constable from the Parks Police was sneaking through the woods looking for flashers. Apparently they’d had a rash of them in the park. He came across more than he bargained for. The file says the constable initially thought it was a bit of al fresco g
ross indecency between consenting males. Then he saw the bindings around the boy’s wrists.

  “Korsakov sees the constable and makes a break for it, but the game is over and he gets nicked before he’s gone fifty feet. The arrest was made by Parks Police. CID at Richmond inherited the job. According to the investigating officer’s notes on the case, he came to the conclusion it was a planned attack: Korsakov had the laced beer with him. CID suspected he had previously targeted the boy, specifically because he had learning difficulties.

  “This is the bit you’ll like. The investigating detective noted how Korsakov had a heightened state of awareness of forensic evidence.”

  “Well, our boy certainly has that,” Donnelly said.

  “He wore a condom throughout the assault. He also wore a pair of leather gloves that were brand-new and he was wearing a waterproof jacket and trousers. He had an empty bin liner in his pocket.”

  Sean understood waterproofs were usually made of tightly woven nylon and could be as effective as a forensics suit in preventing forensic evidence transferring from the suspect to the victim and vice versa.

  Sally went on: “I’ve saved the best till last. When Korsakov was stripped and examined back at the nick, they discovered he’d shaved all his pubic hair off. He later claimed he’d had a dose of pubic crabs and had had to shave it all off.”

  “Shaved his pubes off,” Donnelly said. “Now that’s dedication.”

  “But he wasn’t convicted?” Sean asked.

  “No,” Sally answered. “He wasn’t convicted of the rape. He was, however, convicted of serious fraud. His home was searched as part of the investigation and they found a shitload of papers relating to a pensions company he’d established. The investigating detectives took a dislike to him. .”

  “I can’t think why,” Donnelly chipped in.

  “. . so they decided to stir up as much trouble as they could. Phoned around to people who’d signed up with his pension company. Made some inquiries as to where he’d invested their money. Turned out the whole thing was a con. There was no pension company-or at least, not a real one. The money was going toward keeping Korsakov in the lifestyle he’d become accustomed to. Nice house, BMW and a Range Rover, villa in Umbria. .

  “He’s a con man. A good one. An excellent forger of documents too. He forged clients’ signatures and increased their payments without them even knowing. He’d also forged himself numerous official documents. Passports. Driving licenses. All for different countries. There appears to be no end to his talents.

  “He’d stolen more than two million pounds. Mainly from the elderly. He was finally convicted after a three-month trial and sentenced to four years’ custody. The money was never recovered. Released from Wandsworth prison on twenty-third December 1999.

  “Since his release he’s not been heard of. No arrests or convictions. Nothing.”

  “Why wasn’t he convicted of raping the boy?” Sean asked. “Seemed straightforward.”

  “The boy withdrew the allegation. His parents thought it would be best for him not to go through the courts. They were worried about the press finding out. Making the boy’s life a public freak show. So he walks on the rape, but the investigating officers do their best to screw him anyway and he goes down on the fraud charges.”

  Sean spoke again. “Offenders who commit this sort of crime don’t strike once then never again. No matter what the risks, he would have reoffended. He couldn’t have remained dormant for so long.”

  “Agreed,” Sally said. “Which means he’s either dead, left the country, found God and changed his ways, or. .” She stopped short.

  “Or?” Sean encouraged.

  “Or he’s become someone else. Used his forgery and fraud skills to create a new identity for himself. A new life.”

  “What’s Korsakov look like?” Sean asked, a seed of an idea germinating in his mind.

  “I don’t know,” Sally replied. “There’s no photograph on file. Only a description.”

  “Which is?” Sean asked.

  Sally checked the file. “Male, white. Back in ninety-six he was twenty-five years old, slim, athletic build; short light brown hair; and no identifiable marks, scars, or tattoos.”

  Sean and Donnelly exchanged glances. “Sound like anyone we know?” Donnelly asked.

  Sean shook his head. “I know what you’re thinking, but they can’t be the same person. This guy’s got a conviction, so his prints are on file. Hellier has no prints on file, so he can’t have been convicted of anything; otherwise his prints would be too, no matter what name he’d been convicted under.”

  Donnelly knew Sean was right. “Shame.”

  “However,” Sean added, “it won’t hurt our case to look into it. Sally, you stay with it. First thing in the morning, start finding out all you can about Korsakov. See what Richmond has on him and track down the original investigating officer.”

  Sean turned to Donnelly. “Have you still got that snapshot of Hellier that I took?”

  “Aye,” Donnelly answered and pulled the photograph from his jacket pocket, handing it to Sean, who in turn handed it to Sally.

  “If you do track the investigating officer down, show him this,” Sean told her. “See if he recognizes him.”

  “I thought you said it couldn’t possibly be Hellier?” Donnelly argued.

  “No harm in double-checking. Kill the possibility off once and for all.” Sean turned to Sally. “Once you’ve done that, concentrate on this Korsakov character until you’re happy you’ve got enough to eliminate him as a viable suspect.”

  “And if I can’t eliminate him?”

  “You will,” Sean assured her. “You will.”

  Hellier only ventured out twice all day-once to the local shop for the Sunday papers and then later for an afternoon stroll with his family around the leafy suburban streets. Both his children held on to their mother’s hands as Hellier walked a few paces behind.

  He couldn’t have made it easier for the surveillance team to follow him. He thought he had spotted some of them. Hard to tell, best to stay paranoid for the time being. Always assume the worst. That way he would never be caught cold.

  Now he sat in his cream-and-steel kitchen watching his wife clear up after the evening meal. He pushed his half-eaten food away and sipped on a glass of Pauillac de Latour.

  “No appetite?” Elizabeth asked, smiling. Hellier didn’t hear. “Not hungry tonight, darling?” She raised her voice slightly.

  “Sorry, no,” Hellier answered. “That was delicious, but just not feeling too hungry.” He was with her only in body. His mind was outside with the surveillance team in the streets around his house, circling him as a pack of hyenas would an isolated lion.

  “Worried about something?” Elizabeth asked.

  “No. Why would I be?” Hellier didn’t like being questioned by anybody.

  “What about this identity fraud thing the police were looking into?”

  “That was nothing,” Hellier insisted. “Like I told you, it was all a mistake. The police made a mistake, surprise, surprise.”

  “Of course,” she said, backing down.

  “You did tell them I was at home all night, didn’t you?” Hellier asked without apparent concern.

  “I said exactly what you told me to.”

  “Good.” But Hellier could tell she needed more. “Look, I was at a very sensitive meeting that night. The company wanted me to meet some potential clients, very important clients, but they were a little worried about their backgrounds. Beware Africans bearing large amounts of cash, as we say these days. They wanted me to check them out, that’s all, see if their wealth could be obviously identified as ill-gotten gains. If so, we wouldn’t touch them. All the same, we can’t afford to have the police sniffing around our affairs-it would be very bad for business. Our clients expect complete confidentiality and privacy. I couldn’t tell the police the truth. I’m sorry I dragged you into it, darling, but I really had no choice.”

  Elizabeth
seemed happy with that. Even if she didn’t entirely believe him, the explanation itself was at least believable. “You should have told me that straightaway, dear. I would have understood. But I’d watch out for that DI Corrigan,” she warned him. “He didn’t come across as the usual PC Plod. There was something unnerving about him. Some sort of animal cunning.”

  Hellier felt rage suddenly swelling in his chest, his temples throbbing, his body trembling involuntarily, but the expression on his face never changed from calm and content. He couldn’t stand to hear his adversary being complimented. Even if his wife had meant it as an insult, it gave Corrigan more credibility in his eyes, even suggested he should somehow fear him. His fists clenched under the table as he imagined Elizabeth’s smashed and bleeding face, his own knuckles bleeding, shredded on her teeth.

  He waited until the rage had swept over him and died, like a passing hurricane, before rising from the table. He kissed her softly on the cheek. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, darling,” he said. “I need to do a little work. The price we have to pay.”

  Hellier headed for his study. He went through the ritual of recovering the key to his safe and then opening it. He flicked through the small address book he’d pulled from inside and found what he was looking for. He called the number.

  “Hello?” the voice answered.

  “You’d better call off your fucking dogs,” Hellier hissed.

  “That’s not possible. I haven’t got that sort of influence.” The voice sounded matter-of-fact. Hellier didn’t like that.

  “Listen to me, you fucking moron. As much as it amuses me having these incompetents trying to follow me, they might just stumble across something we’d both rather they didn’t. So you’d better think of something, and soon.”

  “I’ve already done more than I should,” the voice protested. “I’ve stuck my neck out. I can’t do anything else. I won’t.”

  “Wrong again. I hope you’re not going to make a habit of slipping up. I think you know how costly your mistake could be.”

  Hellier didn’t wait for a reply. He hung up. He heard his wife call out. She wanted to know if he wanted coffee.