Cold Killing dsc-1

by Luke Delaney

  “If you have no objections, I thought I’d have Korsakov’s prints compared to any recovered from the scene. You never know your luck.”

  “Be my guest,” Sean told her. “The identification officer dealing with this is IDO Collins. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go home before my kids forget what I look like. You should go home too. Get some sleep.”

  “I will,” she said, then hesitated. “If he’s guilty, we’ll get him sooner or later. It’ll only be a matter of time before we can prove it.”

  “Of course we will,” Sean assured her. “We always do, in the end. By the way, speaking of Hellier, did you show your man the photograph?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “Meant nothing to him. Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Sean said. “It was a long shot anyway.”

  Jarratt sat at home with his wife and daughters. An article on the local evening news program caught his eye. Somebody had been arrested for the murder of Daniel Graydon. That was the name DS Jones had mentioned. The name of the murder victim.

  The reporter standing outside the Peckham police station had used the term “helping police with their inquiries.” Jarratt knew that meant he’d been arrested.

  It was only a small item on the news. The death of a prostitute caused little stir in London these days. He listened to the reporter’s closing statement.

  “Although the police have so far refused to comment, it is believed that the man helping with their inquiries is one James Hellier, a renowned accountant and partner with the respected firm of Butler and Mason, whose offices are in the exclusive Knightsbridge area of Central London.

  “The solicitor representing the man believed to be Mr. Hellier claimed his client had nothing to hide and was happy to assist the police in every way possible, although he declined to confirm the man was indeed James Hellier.”

  This was disastrous. Everything he feared most was becoming reality. Jarratt’s chest was close to exploding. He excused himself and went to the kitchen. He poured too much whiskey into the first glass he saw. His hands shook as he took large sips. He needed to calm down, get control of himself and the situation. He thought he might be about to have a heart attack. He knew what was coming next.

  Sean sat quietly staring at the television without really watching it. He’d chosen to sit on a chair instead of next to Kate on the sofa. She could feel his tension.

  “Sean,” she called across to him. Nothing. She called again. “Sean.” He rolled his head to face her. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

  Sean puffed out his lips and exhaled. “Not really.”

  “It might help to talk,” she persevered.

  “It’s nothing,” he lied. “I thought I had our prime suspect today, but he wormed off the hook.”

  “You’ll get him. Remember what you always tell me: it’s only a matter of time, no matter how difficult it may look at first.”

  “Yeah, but this one bothers me. Every time I think I’ve got him cornered, he worms his way out. At first I thought he was just thinking on his feet, coming up with answers to fit the evidence against him as and when he had to, but now I’m not so sure. I think he has a strategy. The moment he knew we were onto him, he invented a story to lead us into a blind alley-and it’s my fault. I showed my hand too soon. I should never have let him know he was a suspect. I should never have gone to his office in the first place. I should have watched him. Watched and waited for him to lead us to the evidence. Now I have to play the game with him, and from what I’ve seen so far he’s a bloody good player. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was even enjoying it.”

  Sean sprang from his chair and made for the kitchen. He grabbed a glass and filled it with water. Kate followed him. She’d seen him like this before, usually during difficult cases, but not always. It was better to get him to talk than allow him to dwell on matters. She wouldn’t let him slip away into the dark places his past could take him. “Don’t let it get on top of you,” she warned. To anyone else it would have been an innocent enough comment, but not to Sean.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

  Kate realized her mistake. “Nothing. I only meant don’t let this case get too personal.”

  “It’s always personal,” Sean told her. “For me, it’s always personal. It’s how I stop them.”

  “I know, but you need to be careful. Don’t try and do everything alone.”

  “Why?” Sean asked. “Afraid I’ll lose it?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Isn’t it?” he said, his voice calm.

  She knew his past, about his childhood, his father. The beatings and abuse. Everything. Sean had always been honest with her about that. She understood that the rage and hate from his childhood were still inside him somewhere. How could they not be? But she knew he was nothing like his father, like the people he hunted. If she’d had any doubts, no matter how small, she would never have married him, let alone had his children. This was just Sean venting his frustrations. She’d dealt with it before and she knew she’d have to deal with it again.

  “Don’t do this, Sean,” she pleaded. “I don’t deserve this.”

  It was enough to make Sean pause. “I’m sorry,” he said. He sipped his water. “Do you ever think about it though? Aren’t you ever a little afraid I may become like him?”

  Kate knew he was talking about his father. “No. Never. You realized you had this thing inside you, and you wanted to stop it, stop it before anyone got hurt, and you did.”

  “With a lot of help,” he reminded her.

  “None of it would have worked if you hadn’t wanted it to.”

  “Christ,” Sean said, before taking another swig of water, “sometimes I feel like such a fucking stereotype: boy is abused by his father, the boy grows into a man only to become an abuser himself. From victim to offender. It’s all too fucking predictable.”

  “But you didn’t,” she reminded him. “You grew up to be a cop. You use your past to help people, not to hurt them.” A silence fell between them. Kate moved toward him and held his face in her hands. “Your past is a curse, but it has left you with a gift. You can think like these people. You can recognize them when others see nothing. You can predict them.”

  “Not this one,” Sean told her. “I can’t see through his eyes yet. I don’t know why, but I can’t. Whenever I try, it’s like someone pulling a screen across, blocking me.”

  “It’ll come,” she assured him. “Give it time and it will come.”

  There was a silence, then Sean spoke again. “Do you know what it’s like, being able to think like them?”

  “No,” Kate answered. “I look at you when you’re like this and I thank God I can’t. Who would want that burden?”

  “I can feel what they feel,” he said. “I can sense their excitement, their relief. Pain. Confusion.”

  Kate stroked his hair, the way a mother would a child. “And you use it to stop them. To stop them hurting people.”

  “Sometimes I feel like I’m too close. So close that I could slip into darkness any second.”

  “Then perhaps you should see Dr. Richardson? It has been a while since you spoke to her.”

  “No,” Sean said, snapping a little. “I’ll be fine. I’ll sort it out myself. I just need you to remind me now and then. To remind me who I really am.”

  “You know who you are,” Kate reminded him. “Ever since you decided you were going to be a policeman. Ever since that moment, you’ve known exactly who you are.”

  “I suppose so,” he answered unconvincingly.

  “There’s something else though, isn’t there? You’ve got that look on your face you always get when something’s drilling a hole in your head. So what is it?”

  “I saw something strange today,” he confessed.

  “The jobs we do, we see strange things every day.”

  He ignored her interruption. “Outside my office w
indow, on the flat roof below, in amongst the ventilation outlets. It was a dead bird. At first I thought it was just another dead pigeon, but then I realized it was a magpie. I knew it was a magpie because other magpies kept landing next to it. I assumed they’d come to feed on its body, but I was wrong-they were bringing it gifts: twigs, small shiny stones, things to eat. I watched them for a while and then I realized, I realized what they were doing. They were mourning its death. Magpies mourn their dead. I never knew that.”

  “And that upset you?” Kate asked.

  “No. Not upset me, made me wonder, that’s all.”

  “Wonder what?”

  “We don’t judge them, do we? Magpies. When they’re feeding on roadkill or killing the chicks of other birds as they try to hide in their nests, we don’t judge them. We don’t judge them because, as far as we’re concerned, they’re only doing what’s in their nature to do. They’re just animals, after all. But that’s what I thought separated us from animals, the fact that we mourn our dead. Only now I know magpies do too. A murderous, heartless killer that mourns its dead.”

  “Meaning?” Kate asked.

  “Meaning maybe we’re not as different from the animals killing each other to survive as we’d like to think. Meaning maybe that’s what the men I hunt are doing. Killing because it’s in their nature to. They were born to do it, yet we pass judgment on them as if they were normal like you and. .” He stopped before including himself.

  “Whether it’s in their nature to do it or not, someone has to stop them, and right now that someone is you.”

  “I know.”

  Kate sighed. “I’m proud of what you do. I’m proud it’s you who goes after them. It scares me sometimes, but I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

  Sean pushed his glass away. “Thank you,” he told her softly. “Thank you for putting up with me. Promise me one thing though.”

  “What?” Kate asked.

  “Don’t ever let me go. Don’t give up on me.”

  Kate slipped her hands around the back of his neck and pulled him closer. “That’ll never happen,” she promised. “I love you. Just don’t push me away. Don’t ever push me away.”

  Sebastian Gibran sat at his table in the middle of the Criterion Restaurant in Piccadilly Circus, an exclusive, expensive, and cavernous former ballroom in the heart of the West End. Usually the reserve of the rich, the famous, and wannabes, tonight it was for the exclusive use of London’s financiers. The lights were dimmer than usual, but Gibran could still make out pretty much everyone in the place. As he absentmindedly joined in with small talk he searched the room for Hellier. He couldn’t see him and checked his watch again. Hellier was already late, appetizers had been served and eaten. Soon the various speeches would begin. He knew he wouldn’t be the only one who had noticed Hellier’s absence. His searching was disturbed by the restaurant manager appearing at his shoulder, leaning in to speak quietly in his ear.

  “Excuse me, sir, but some gentlemen would like to see you in the private bar.” Gibran knew who the gentlemen were and he had a good idea why they wanted to see him. He nodded once to show the manager he understood while pushing his chair away to stand, throwing the napkin from his lap onto the table.

  Gibran moved inconspicuously across the restaurant and up a short flight of stairs to the private bar, various security and waiting staff casually moving out of his way, as if they’d all been warned of his coming. Two gorillas in thousand-pound suits held the doors open for him as he entered the bar and was immediately ushered past the most senior people in the world of finance he’d ever seen assembled in one place to a corner where two aging men sat in large comfortable chairs, at a table made up for their exclusive use. The men had brown skin and silver hair; crystal-clear, sharp, intelligent eyes; and wore platinum watches vulgarly encrusted with diamonds. Gibran could imagine the cars they drove, the houses they lived in, and the call girls they would sleep with later that night. One had a glass of blood red wine on the table in front of him and the other a martini; the latter was smoking a fat Cuban cigar and nobody told him he couldn’t. Gibran recognized them as two of the owners of Butler and Mason. He’d seen them twice before and spoken with them only once.

  Neither of them stood to greet him. The one sucking the cigar spoke first. “Sebastian.” He had an Austrian accent. “Sorry to drag you away from dinner, but it’s been such a long time since we’ve had a chance to speak.”

  Gibran resisted the temptation to remind them that they had never really spoken. “It certainly has,” he managed to reply, but instantly noticed the old men’s displeasure at his answer, as if he was somehow disrespecting them. “But I understand how busy you must be and I’m kept well informed of everything I need to know.”

  “Of course,” the wine drinker reassured him in an Eastern European accent, “and we hope you understand how valued you are to our organization.”

  “I’ve always felt I belonged at Butler and Mason.” Gibran told them what he knew they wanted to hear. “I believe in what we do, and that’s the most important thing for me.”

  “Excellent,” the smoker declared. “But now we hear that one of our employees has drawn unwanted attention to our business. Unwanted attention from the police.”

  Gibran found he needed to clear his throat before speaking. “Bad news travels fast,” he said, but it prompted no response. The smoker puffed on his cigar and stared at Gibran through the thick clouds that floated from his mouth. “It won’t be a problem,” he tried to reassure the old men. “I believe it’s a simple case of mistaken identity. I expect the police to clear things up very soon.” Gibran could feel their eyes dissecting him and knew that if he made one wrong move now, by morning his desk would have been cleared for him and his name wiped from the company records. But the pressure didn’t disturb him: he was used to it. He enjoyed it and the old men knew it, that’s why they paid him as well as they did.

  “Should we suspend him while we wait for this. . this misunderstanding to be cleared up?” the wine drinker asked.

  “Best not to,” Gibran explained. “We don’t have enough evidence of any wrongdoing and neither do the police, or so his legal representatives tell me. They’re keeping me fully informed of any developments. For now, I’d rather keep him where I can see him.”

  “Does this employee know you’re talking to his legal people?” the smoker asked.

  “No. He believes he has client confidentiality.”

  “Good,” the wine drinker eventually said. “We know you’re aware of your responsibilities.”

  Another veiled warning, Gibran thought: clear up the Hellier problem or don’t expect to be around too long at Butler and Mason. “I’m always aware of my responsibilities, gentlemen,” he replied calmly. “Believe me, there’s nothing I take more seriously.”

  “Of course you are,” the smoker agreed. “You have a great deal to offer. Which is why we were wondering if you have ever considered becoming involved in politics?”

  Gibran found it difficult to hide his surprise. “Politics?” he asked. “I’m sorry, gentlemen. I’m not a political animal.”

  The man with the cigar laughed, smoke spilling from his gaping mouth. “Trust me, to be successful in politics, it’s better not to be too political.”

  The wine drinker laughed in agreement, but Gibran didn’t see the joke, just their self-assured arrogance and condescending belief that somehow they understood how everything worked. No, it went beyond that; they believed they controlled how everything worked.

  “We’re not asking you to consider becoming an MP, merely whether you’d be interested in a role as a special government adviser. It could be arranged. You’ll find all governments are desperate for the advice someone like you could offer them, otherwise all they have are civil servants whispering in their ears about things they know nothing about.”

  “Which political party did you have in mind?” he asked them.

  Again the mocking laughter of wisdom from old men
. “Whichever one you want,” the wine drinker answered. “Our organization makes very generous donations to both the main players. We feel a man like you could almost immediately be placed in a position of real influence at the government level. Adviser to the minister for trade, perhaps?”

  “Or perhaps the foreign secretary would interest you?” the smoker offered. “We have to plan for the future to remain competitive. To have someone of influence in the heart of government would be very useful for our organization.”

  “Well, I’ll certainly take it under consideration,” Gibran promised, “but I’ve always enjoyed working away from the limelight. I like to make things happen without being seen. It seems to suit my personal ambitions better.”

  “Fine,” the smoker replied. “But don’t take too long to make up your mind. What we’re offering you is something very special. Remember, Sebastian, religion is dead. These days it’s not down to priests and popes to tell us who to worship. Heavenly gods are dead to mankind. It’s the gods made of flesh and blood that people worship. Urban gods. Would you like to be an urban god, Sebastian?”

  Was that what these old men thought they were? Gibran asked himself. Gods? And did they really believe he would ever want to be like them, old and weak? Their power was an illusion, built on markets that could disappear overnight.

  The smoker didn’t wait for him to reply. “And don’t forget to take care of that little problem we discussed, before it gets. . embarrassing.”

  “Of course,” Gibran said. “But we should bear in mind that this particular employee knows a great deal about our, shall we say, business practices. If it was felt we needed to move him on, then I think it would be best to move him to one of our lower-profile offices, in say Vancouver or Kuala Lumpur. Somewhere we could still keep an eye on him. I would be uncomfortable having someone with that amount of knowledge potentially working for a rival.”