Cold Killing dsc-1

by Luke Delaney

  I returned to the car and changed clothes. The used ones I tied in a plastic bag. I would take them to the city dump back at Brent Cross tomorrow, along with some old rubbish my wife had been nagging me to get rid of. After that I’d take the rented car back, having removed the false plates, of course. No doubt they would give the car a good cleaning for me too.

  I drove back toward North London. Totally at ease by then. I was beginning to realize my potential. My power and control were unrivaled. It had been the most beautiful experience of my life-to take a life in this way-not in revenge or in a fit of temper, not when my blood was boiling with hatred and anger after being insulted and wronged, but a glorious execution of my right to do as I please and take whoever I want to take-my power. No hot blood coursed through my veins. My blood ran cold and she-she was a cold killing.

  There was no going back now.

  CHAPTER 12

  Monday

  Sean hauled himself from his uncomfortable chair, stretching and yawning as he looked out of his office window at the flat roofs of the surrounding buildings, their surfaces littered with the detritus of man and nature. He hadn’t slept well the previous night, too many unanswered questions swimming around in his mind. His body ached miserably. A hopping bird caught his eye, its blue-black feathers shining in the sunlight, making its white patches barely visible, drawing his attention to the nearest of the rooftops. The magpie took oversize steps toward what had brought it to this desolate place, its head constantly jerking into new positions as it checked for danger and opportunity. Sean saw what it was moving toward-the half-concealed body of another bird-and assumed it had come to feast on a dead pigeon, but as it grew closer he realized it held something in its beak, something shiny, like a polished stone. He watched, fascinated, as the bird placed the object next to the body, then squawked loudly and sorrowfully before flying away. He squinted against the sun and focused as hard as he could on the small corpse below, the black and white feathers confirming what he’d already suspected. As he continued to watch the sad little drama more magpies came to see their fallen kinsman, each bringing gifts of twigs and shiny objects, food and things precious to their kind, always chasing away any pigeons that dared to approach the lifeless body, pecking violently at their eyes, prepared to kill to protect their dead. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t look away, until Donnelly burst into his office holding a set of car keys, shattering his temporary escape. “Going somewhere?” Sean asked.

  “Drop your linen and stop your grinnin’. Fingerprints finally got back to us. They’ve matched a single print from the victim’s flat to Hellier. He was in the flat. There’s no mistake.”

  “A single print?” Sean asked, confused. “Is it a partial?”

  “No,” Donnelly reassured him. “It’s a full match.”

  “Just one print.” Sean could tell he was alone in his skepticism. “Where did they find it?”

  “On the underside of the door handle for the bathroom. The outside handle,” Donnelly informed him. “You don’t look overly excited,” he added.

  Sean chased the doubts from his mind and tried to concentrate on the fact that finally he had usable, tangible evidence. His aches and pains faded as his excitement grew. “No wonder he didn’t want to give his fingerprints. Get hold of the surveillance team and find out where Hellier is now, and get Sally to sort out a couple of search teams. Once he’s nicked I want his office and home searched. No shit once-over. Full searches. With forensics too. You take one team and do his house. I’ll do his office with the other.”

  Donnelly spun on his heels and left Sean’s office.

  They always make a mistake, Sean thought. They always make a mistake.

  The three unmarked police cars drove fast toward Knightsbridge. The surveillance had confirmed that Hellier was at his office. The blue lights attached to the roofs of the cars whirled while the sirens screamed at the midmorning traffic to clear the way.

  Sean sat in the trailing car. He felt exuberant. He remembered that this was why he had joined the force. Driving fast through traffic. Lights flashing, sirens wailing. Envious looks from other drivers. Children pointing. It just didn’t happen enough.

  They would arrest Hellier at his office and then search the entire place. Inch by inch. It didn’t matter to Sean who knew Hellier had been arrested. He wasn’t about to be subtle.

  Maybe Hellier would confess when faced with the fingerprint evidence. If not, how was he going to talk his way out of it? With luck, Hellier would be charged with murder before dark.

  Other officers, led by Donnelly, were on their way to Hellier’s house in Islington. They would wait until Sean sent word that Hellier had been arrested. As soon as he was, they would have the legal power to search his home for evidence relating to the murder of Daniel Graydon. Sean thought they had a better chance of finding something incriminating in Hellier’s office. Surely he wouldn’t risk leaving anything for his wife and kids to stumble across at home.

  The three cars braked hard outside Hellier’s Knightsbridge office. They didn’t bother to look for parking spaces, just left the cars to block the road. A driver remained with each. The car doors seemed to open simultaneously. Nine police officers including Sean and Sally stepped out onto the tarmac. The heat had made it sticky.

  They moved menacingly across the pavement to the front door of the building housing Hellier’s office. Sally pressed the buzzer for the ground floor, which housed a different company. No need to forewarn Hellier.

  The intercom spoke. “Good morning. Albert Bray and Partners. Do you have an appointment with one of our consultants?”

  “I’m a police officer and I need immediate access to this building.” There was a silence. Sally continued: “This doesn’t concern your company or any of your employees.”

  The door buzzed and Sally pushed it open. The detectives moved quickly and quietly into the entrance hallway. Two remained close to the front door. The other seven walked fast up the stairs.

  They reached Butler and Mason and another locked door. Sean pounded on it. Time to ruffle some well-groomed feathers. Within a few seconds the door was opened by the perfect-looking secretary. He swerved past her into the office itself. Her mouth dropped opened. Sean thought she was about to protest.

  “Is Mr. Hellier in his office?” She was struck dumb. “I said, is Mr. Hellier in his office?” Nothing. “I’ll assume he is. Jim. Stan.” Two detectives looked at him. “You boys stay here and cover the front door. The rest with me and Sally.”

  They strode along the corridor toward Hellier’s office. Finally the secretary found her voice. She chased after them. “You can’t go in there. Mr. Hellier is in a very important meeting.”

  “Wrong” was all Sean said.

  “You need a search warrant,” she argued.

  “Wrong again,” Sean told her without looking.

  He threw open Hellier’s door and walked straight in. The other detectives waited outside. Hellier sat at his desk, and Sebastian Gibran, who’d disturbed their last meeting, sat next to him, watching them as closely as Sean watched Hellier. Two other men Sean didn’t recognize sat opposite; they seemed terrified. Hellier never flinched. Sean kept moving. He was almost at Hellier’s side. He showed Hellier his identification.

  “James Hellier, I’m Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan. This is Detective Sergeant Jones and Detective Constable Zukov. I’m arresting you for the murder of Daniel Graydon.

  “You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so. However, it may harm your defense if you fail to mention something when questioned that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence against you.

  “Do you understand the caution, Mr. Hellier?”

  By the book, Sean thought. Best way with a slippery bastard like Hellier, especially with three witnesses sitting there with stunned expressions on their faces.

  Hellier stared hard at him. Sean saw a flash of pure hatred. Hellier smiled and addressed the
three men sitting opposite. “If you’ll please excuse me, gentlemen. It appears the police need me to help them with their inquiries.” He stood slowly, as if bored, and dramatically held out his wrists. “Aren’t you going to handcuff me, Inspector?”

  “I would,” Sean said, “but you’d probably enjoy it.” He took hold of Hellier’s upper arm. Hellier felt strong. Solid. Sean was a little surprised. “Let’s go.”

  Gibran tried to intervene, stepping in front of them. “Is this necessary?” he asked, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. Forever Butler and Mason’s chief negotiator and protector. “Surely this heavy-handedness is unwarranted?”

  “Sorry, I don’t remember your name,” Sean said, leaning uncomfortably close to the man.

  “Really?” Gibran said. “That’s odd. You don’t strike me as the sort of man who forgets very much about anything.”

  “Keep your nose out of our business, Mr. Gibran,” Sean warned. “And let us decide what is and isn’t necessary.”

  Gibran slowly stepped aside, holding out an upturned palm, indicating they could pass, as if they somehow needed his permission.

  Sean and Zukov marched Hellier out of the office and along the corridor. When Hellier was certain no one else could hear or see him, his expression changed to a snarl, showing Sean a glimpse of the monster he knew lived beneath the mask. “Just get me my fucking solicitor.” He spat the words into Sean’s face.

  Donnelly and the other officers were already inside Hellier’s house. Donnelly was rifling through the drawers in the lounge, well-practiced eyes scanning papers, letters, everything. DC Fiona Cahill was at his side, handing him more papers she had found elsewhere in the room.

  Elizabeth Hellier had recovered from mild shock and was now running around talking incessantly. Complaining and threatening. Her threats were idle. They could take the house apart and there would be little she could do about it.

  Donnelly could bear her twittering no longer. “Mrs. Hellier, this is gonna happen with or without your objections. The quicker and easier this is, the sooner we’ll be out of here. Why don’t you take a seat in the kitchen? Have a cup of tea and stay out of the way.”

  He steered Mrs. Hellier into the kitchen, guiding her onto a stool. Another detective peered around the kitchen door.

  “Dave,” he said, “we’ve got a locked door.”

  “My husband’s study,” Mrs. Hellier said. “He always keeps it locked during the day. I don’t know where the key is. I think he takes it to work.”

  “Fine,” Donnelly said. He turned to the detective. “Break it open.”

  “What?” Mrs. Hellier almost squealed. “Please, contact my husband. He’ll open it for you, I’m sure.”

  “I think he’s probably got other things on his mind right now, Mrs. Hellier.” As Donnelly spoke, he could hear the unmistakable sound of splintering wood.

  Sean left the others to complete the search of Hellier’s office. It would take hours. He’d traveled back to the Peckham police station with Hellier, who had stared out of the window all the way. Hellier hadn’t responded to any approaches Sean had tried, and he’d tried plenty. Disgust. Aggression. Threats. Compassion. Understanding. It had been Sean’s only chance to go one-on-one with Hellier before the rules took over. Nothing had moved him. Yet.

  Even when he was booked into the custody area, Hellier never spoke except to give his name and the details of the solicitor he demanded to speak with immediately. The custody officer assured him the solicitor would be called. He was about to have Hellier taken to his cell when Sean spoke. “One other thing. .”

  “Yes?” the sergeant asked.

  “We want the clothes he’s wearing. All of them.”

  “Okay. Take him to his cell-number four’s free. Forensic suits are in the cupboard at the end of the cell passage.”

  Sean knew where the white paper suits were. Replacement clothing for suspects whose own clothes had been seized. They marked suspects who’d been arrested for serious crimes. Rapists. Murderers. Armed robbers. Police and other prisoners alike always paid more attention to men in white paper suits.

  “Is there anyone I can call to have some replacement clothes brought for you, Mr. Hellier?” the sergeant asked. Hellier didn’t reply. The sergeant shrugged his shoulders. “He’s all yours, guv’nor.”

  Sean nodded his appreciation and led Hellier to his cell.

  DC Alan Jesson followed Sean and Hellier into the miserably dreary cell. He carried the brown paper bags all clothing exhibits were sealed in. Plastic bags caused too much moisture. Mold could grow quickly and destroy vital evidence. Paper let the clothes breathe. Kept evidence intact.

  “Strip. Take everything off and then put this on.” Sean threw the white paper suit on the stone bench.

  Hellier smiled and began to undress. The detective constable carefully folded Hellier’s Boss suit, Thomas Pink shirt, and the rest of his clothing, then slid them into the brown paper bags. The detective wasn’t concerned about creasing the clothes, he was taking care not to lose any forensic evidence that might be entwined in the fibers of the clothing.

  Sean glanced at Hellier’s naked body. He had the physique of an Olympic gymnast, only slimmer, denser, and more defined. Physically he would be more than a match for Sean, and that rarely happened.

  Hellier looked at him. He spoke silently in his mind. Enjoy your moment, bastard, because you will pay for this. I swear I will destroy you, Detective Inspector Corrigan. I will end you.

  Donnelly and his team had been searching Hellier’s home for over three hours. They had bagged and tagged most of Hellier’s clothing and shoes, but had found nothing startling.

  Donnelly was searching through Hellier’s desk drawers. They’d had to break them all open, one by one. Elizabeth Hellier had sworn she didn’t have keys.

  All their search had turned up was further evidence that Hellier was as wealthy as he looked. He had a number of bank accounts: Barclays, HSBC, Bank of America, ASB Bank in New Zealand. Each containing in excess of a hundred thousand pounds or the foreign equivalent. Donnelly let out soft whistles as he added up the sums, but other than that he found nothing.

  He needed to stand and stretch. As he pushed the chair back from the desk he felt a stinging pain in his thigh. He looked down and saw a rip in his trouser leg.

  “Oh, you bastard,” he declared. “What the bloody hell was that?” He put his hand under the desk and felt around. He touched something. It was small and cold. Something metal.

  He pushed the chair away and ducked under the table. He saw them immediately. Not one, but two shiny keys taped underneath the desk. He didn’t touch them.

  “Peter-get the photographer in here. I need a picture taken.”

  Only when the keys had been photographed and fingerprinted did Donnelly remove them from under the desk. The tape used to hold them in place had been carefully removed and sealed in a plastic evidence bag. Who knew how many microscopic pieces of evidence clung to its sticky back?

  He held the keys up and asked the room a question. “Now. What do we use keys for?” Slowly he looked down at the drawers they’d broken open. The locks remained intact. He winced as he put one of the keys into the drawer lock. It didn’t fit. He tried the other. It fit. He grimaced before turning the key. The lock clicked open. “Oops,” he said. “I think we might be getting a bill for some broken antique furniture.”

  He tried the other drawers. The key fit them all. He dropped it into an evidence bag and sealed it straightaway. He tossed the other key around in the palm of his hand and called out across the office. “Anyone finds a locked anything, let me know.”

  A detective searching the walnut cabinets attracted Donnelly’s attention. “Hold on, there could be something under here.”

  Donnelly moved closer and watched over his shoulder. He pulled back the carpet at the base of the cabinet. They stared at the floor safe. They looked at each other, then at the key in Donnelly’s hand.

  He pushed the key int
o the lock. He could feel it was precision made. It slid into place as if it had been oiled. The heavy door opened upward.

  The first thing he saw were bundles of cash, neatly rolled and held in place with rubber bands. He touched nothing. He could see they were mainly U.S. dollars. Hundred-dollar bills. Some sterling too-fifty-pound notes-and Singapore dollars, again in fifties. How much in total, he could only guess. He saw the unmistakable red cover of a British passport. He flicked it open-it was in Hellier’s name. This man could leave the country in a hurry if he had to.

  There was something else, lying under the passport. A small black book. An address book? Donnelly was still on his knees. He looked up at the detective who’d discovered the floor safe.

  “You’d better get that photographer back in here. And the fingerprint lady too. I don’t know what all this is about, but it’s got to mean something.”

  Sally’s search team had arrived back at the station at about 2 P.M. She sat with Sean in his office briefing him on what they had found and seized, the main thing being Hellier’s computer, which would be sent to the electronics lab where the boffins would interrogate the system’s innards. Maybe they could find something, but it would take time.

  Sean’s phone rang. “Hello, this is DI Corrigan.”

  “Front office here, sir. There’s a Mr. Templeman wants to see you.”

  “Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.” Sean hung up. “Hellier’s lawyer’s here,” he informed Sally as he set off for the front office. He walked quickly along the busy corridors and skipped down the stairs, nodding to the stressed-looking civilian station officer before waving Templeman past the waiting queue of customers. Templeman wasted no time with pleasantries. “I demand immediate access to my client.”

  “Of course,” Sean agreed, and guided him through a side door into the station. “I’ll take you to the custody suite. Follow me.”