by Luke Delaney
The cover removed, he sprang off the banister and hooked both hands over the outside edge of the square hole in the roof. His body dangled below as he pulled himself up and through the roof exit. Hellier was in excellent physical condition. He’d worked hard to build his strength and develop the physique of an acrobat.
He replaced the cover, making a mental note to push back the bolt in the morning before anyone noticed. He took a few seconds to straighten his clothes and admire the view from the rooftop. He felt alone, but strong. Safe. He sucked in the warm night air, heavy and moist. Time to go. He moved quickly and silently across the roofs.
CHAPTER 17
Last night I had an almost overwhelming desire to be the real me. To release the animal that hides inside and allow it full and free expression. But I resisted the temptation. Too many things to arrange first. If I’m to take advantage of the police’s lapses, then I must be patient. Must take time to prepare. Their heads will be spinning soon enough.
I’m at work again; boring, but necessary. I read the papers and watch the news endlessly. I have to be sure they haven’t linked any of my so-called crimes.
I’ve been considering looking outside of London for my next subject. Can’t say the idea appeals much, though. London lends itself so well to my imagination. It truly is a magnificent backdrop, so I think I’ll stay for now. But it’s almost inevitable I’ll have to leave before too much longer. Sooner or later some bright spark will make a connection. They’ll never connect them all. Impossible. But they’ll connect two, maybe more, and then they’ll start to take things seriously and that won’t be good for me.
CHAPTER 18
Wednesday
By 7:30 A.M. Sean was back at work. A few hours’ sleep, a shower, and clean clothes had partially revived him. He would be briefing half the team soon. The other half was still across London, watching Hellier’s office. Apparently Hellier hadn’t gone home all night. He’d stayed in his office. He was definitely up to something.
Sean’s office phone rang. “DI Corrigan speaking.” He tried to disguise his tiredness.
“Morning, sir,” a voice on the other end replied. “I’m DC Kelsey, calling from SO11.” The name meant nothing to Sean. “You sent some numbers to us. Telephone numbers in an address book taken from a James Hellier. You wanted subscribers’ checks on them?”
Sean remembered. “Yes, of course. How can I help?”
“Just a courtesy call, really. To let you know we did the checks and none of them came back as a trace. Basically, they’re not telephone numbers as such.”
“ ‘As such’?” Sean asked.
“Yeah. I think they could be telephone numbers ultimately, but they’re probably coded.”
Sean stood up. He’d expected as much. So that was why Hellier denied having Daniel Graydon’s number in the book. If he’d admitted to that, he would have had to declare his code and then they could have deciphered every number in the book. They could have traced all his secret contacts. It would have told them a great many things. Hellier was careful. The killer was careful.
“Could you decipher the code?” Sean asked.
“We don’t do deciphering at SO11,” DC Kelsey replied.
“Any idea who does?”
“There isn’t anywhere specific that I know of. You need to find your own expert. MI5, a university lecturer, something like that.”
“Tell me you’re joking?” Sean said, without knowing why he was so surprised.
“Afraid not. But I get some quiet spells, sometimes. I could have a play with them for you, if you like.”
“You’re a good man,” Sean replied. “Call me as soon as you get anything.” He hung the phone up only for it to immediately ring again. At the same time Sally appeared at the door. He held his index finger up to stall her and grabbed the phone.
“DI Corrigan.” Still early morning and already his telephone-answering manner was degenerating.
“Guv’nor, it’s Stan.” It was DC Stan McGowan, the detective in charge of the second makeshift surveillance team. “I don’t know what happened here last night,” he went on, “but someone on the other surveillance crew fucked up.”
“What’s going on?”
“I was told Target One didn’t leave the office last night.” Stan used surveillance language to describe Hellier.
“That’s what I heard.”
“Then why did we just see Target One enter it?”
Sean sat slowly. “Impossible.”
“Impossible or not, I’ve seen him with my own eyes. It’s been confirmed by observation posts one and three. And he’s wearing fresh clothes too. Sorry, boss. Someone fucked up.”
Sean knew what it meant. Hellier had been running free again. All night. Would there be a price to pay for their mistake? Had it cost someone their life?
Donnelly appeared in his doorway as he was slamming the phone down. “Problem?” he asked.
Sean gave a long sigh before answering. “Whoever was covering Hellier last night lost him.” He sprang to his feet and began moving toward the briefing room. Donnelly and Sally followed.
“No way,” Donnelly insisted. “Not while I was covering him, no fucking way. He made it easy for us and stayed at work all night, too scared of the press to show his face.”
“Sorry, Dave.” Sean spoke without looking at him. “It’s been confirmed. No mistake. Hellier slipped past you. I need you to work out how that could have happened and when it could have happened.”
“I don’t fucking believe this,” Donnelly protested.
“It’s done, Dave.” Sean still didn’t look at him. “Let it go.”
Sally tried to help. “There were no murders last night. I’ve already checked.”
“You mean there were no murders discovered last night,” Sean pointed out. “There’s a difference,” he added unnecessarily. “Let’s hope there’ll be no more cock-ups today.”
“Wait a minute, guv’nor,” Donnelly protested. “I said this half-baked surveillance was a waste of time. I had five tired detectives to cover a target. It was never going to be enough.”
Sean realized his mistake. “Okay. Okay. I know you and the team would have done your best. Maybe there’s another way out of the building?”
“There is,” Donnelly snapped. “Through a basement car park, but we had that covered.”
“Something else then.” Sean wanted to leave the subject.
“Maybe,” Donnelly conceded.
They swept into the briefing room. There were only five detectives waiting for them. Sean was running out of people. The surveillance effort was putting pressure on his resources.
What chatter there had been died down quickly. Everybody automatically took a seat. Sean decided not to mention that Hellier had slipped through their surveillance. He’d let Donnelly tell them later. He knew where Hellier was now, so there was no point in making more of it. He could ill afford divisions in his team.
Conscious of time closing in on him, he got straight to business: “We may well have linked our boy to another murder,” he informed the small audience of detectives. There was a murmur around the room, but no looks of surprise. Sean had told Donnelly the night before. He must have spread the news already.
“On what grounds?” Donnelly asked.
“Three things,” Sean replied. “The lack of usable forensic evidence. The fact that a shoe print belonging to a plain-soled shoe approximately the same size as those found at our scene was recovered. And the type of victim.”
“Hold on there, guv’nor,” Donnelly said. “I thought the victim out east was a teenage girl.”
Sean felt the eyes of the room watching him, waiting for a response. “I don’t think the sex of the victims is relevant.” He knew he had to convince his team that he was right. It was vital that he took them with him. If he lost their confidence now, he would be alone. Isolated.
“Okay,” Donnelly said. “How we going to move this thing forward?”
“Public
ity,” Sean answered. “It’s the one tool left in the box that we haven’t used. It’ll spread the inquiry wider than we can without it. I’m hopeful it’ll turn up a key witness. Someone placing Hellier at or near the victim’s home on the night of the murder. Maybe he used a cab. Maybe we’ll get lucky.
“You sort out a press conference, Dave,” Sean continued. “But make sure you keep our Press Bureau informed. I don’t want to piss on anybody’s chips. Sally, you’ll take care of Crimewatch.”
“Gonna be a TV star, eh, Sally?” Donnelly teased. Sally flicked him a middle-finger salute.
“The Murder Investigation Team investigating the East London killing will do their own press stuff,” Sean announced. “At this time we’re not going to mention there could be a link between the two.”
“Why?” Donnelly asked.
“We don’t want to panic the public,” Sean told him. “We want to use the press in a controlled fashion. We’re not out to make headlines here.
“Second, and more important, we don’t want the killer knowing we’ve made a link. If it is Hellier, then let’s leave him thinking we’re only looking at him for the one. Keep the pressure on him for our murder and maybe he’ll be distracted and make a mistake with the other. No point in showing him our hand. The next time I interview Hellier, I want to be able to take him to pieces, bit by bit. If we can get the evidence, then I’ll be able to break through to him and get him talking-and if I can get him talking, I can bury him. If I can get him talking, he’ll bury himself.”
“What about the other two suspects?” Zukov asked before the detectives scattered. “Paramore and Jonnie Dempsey?”
“Anything, anybody?” Sean asked.
“Paramore’s still missing,” said Donnelly, “but Fiona’s dug something up on Dempsey. Fiona. .”
DC Fiona Cahill, a tall, slim detective in her midthirties with short, neatly cut hazelnut hair, got to her feet, her slightly deep voice and cultured accent further setting her apart. “I’ve been working my way through Daniel’s friends one by one. I spoke to a guy called Ferdie Edwards who tells me that Dempsey did indeed know Daniel and that they were friends, but he also told me they were more than just that.”
“Lovers?” Sean jumped in, a flicker of excitement in his heart.
“No,” said Cahill. “Business partners.”
“What?” Sean asked disbelievingly.
“Apparently, Dempsey worked as a kind of middleman. If he heard of a customer in the club who might be willing to pay for sex, he’d steer them toward Daniel-for a cut of the money, of course. He’d also look out for Daniel, watch his back, so to speak.”
“This is all very interesting,” Sean said impatiently, “but where are we going with it?”
“Well, Edwards reckons that Daniel was getting a bit fed up with the arrangement.”
“You mean he was getting fed up handing over a share of his hard-earned cash to Dempsey,” Donnelly guessed.
“Exactly,” Cahill confirmed. “Edwards said they’d had at least one heated argument over it-Dempsey telling our victim he’d have him banned from the club if he didn’t keep paying up, and Daniel telling Dempsey he already had someone else in the club watching his back who would make sure he was never barred from entering.”
“Do we know who?” Sean asked.
“No. Not yet.”
“Probably one of the bouncers,” Donnelly said.
“Probably,” Sean agreed. “What a bloody mess.”
“ ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave when we endeavor to deceive,’ ” Donnelly added.
Sean took over: “Jonnie the barman has just taken a significant step forward as a viable suspect, so let’s find him. And let’s find out who else had Daniel’s back at the nightclub. And while we’re at it, let’s find Paramore too. We need to speak to all of them-and soon.”
“All right, everybody,” said Donnelly, stepping on as soon as he judged Sean had finished. “You’ve all got plenty to be getting on with, so let’s hustle. And make sure you return all completed actions back to me as soon as they’re ready. You get the jigsaw pieces and I solve the puzzle, remember?”
The meeting broke up, the few detectives who had been there swiftly exiting the briefing room. Other than Sean, Donnelly was the last to leave. He nodded to Sean on his way out, moving a little faster than normal, but not so anyone would have noticed. Instead of returning to the incident room with everyone else, he headed for the fire exit and walked down two flights of stairs to the main part of the station. Still moving fast, he made his way to a small room that housed two old photocopying machines. It also had a phone. The room was empty. Donnelly picked up the phone and dialed.
DS Samra answered. “Hello.”
“Raj. It’s Dave.”
“David.” Samra sounded cautious. “What you after?”
“That little matter I discussed with Jimmy Dawson and yourself. .” He let it hang, waiting for Samra to respond.
“I remember,” Samra confirmed.
“Change of plan.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m not just interested in homosexual murders now. I need to know about anything nasty, and I need to know first.”
“How nasty we talking?”
“Stranger attacks. Lack of motive, lots of mess. Anything sexual too. I’m not interested in domestics, gang related, drugs, or drunks.”
“I’ll do my best,” Raj said.
“Same as before,” Donnelly continued. “Spread the word, but keep it quiet. Remember, I need to know first.” He hung up.
Raj looked at his phone for a moment, then he began to make some calls. He called DS Jimmy Dawson first. If Jimmy was happy to do as Donnelly said, then so was he.
Hellier stood by the window in the office of one of the other junior partners. They drank coffee and shared a few sexist jokes. Their perfect secretary was the subject of much of their posturing and sexual boasting. It was as well she couldn’t hear them.
Hellier meant little of what he said. It was important to engage in this sort of social discourse with his colleagues once in a while. Especially now, following his arrest. The innuendo that he was gay could be more damaging than being suspected of murder. Ridiculous people.
His mood was excellent this morning. He would have paid a considerable sum to have been a fly on the wall when Corrigan found out he’d slipped past them. They’d look like fools a few more times before he was finished.
And then, when the time was perfect, he’d disappear. Leave this God-cursed place and start again. But first Corrigan needed breaking. He’d sworn it. Corrigan had humiliated him and now he would pay a heavy price. The Italians say revenge is a dish best served cold. He didn’t agree. His would be served scalding hot.
The perfect secretary knocked on the open door. He shook the daydreaming from his head.
“What is it, Samantha?” Hellier’s colleague asked.
She looked at Hellier. “It’s actually Mr. Hellier I need to see.”
Hellier stood away from the windowsill. He smiled pleasantly. “Fire away.”
“I have someone on the phone for you, sir, but they won’t give me a name or tell me what it’s about.”
Fucking journalists. Fucking Corrigan. “Well, get rid of them then.”
Strangely, Samantha hesitated at the door, her obedience faltering.
Hellier saw the hesitation. “Well?” he asked.
“They sound quite desperate, sir. They claim to have very important information for you. They’ll only speak to you personally and in private.”
Hellier’s eyes narrowed. “Put the call through to my office.”
Sally walked to the headquarters of the National Criminal Intelligence Service, known as NCIS, situated in Spring Gardens, Lambeth, close to both the forensics laboratory and the nightclub where Daniel Graydon had spent his last night. NCIS remained low profile. You wouldn’t know they were there unless you were looking hard.
She had abandoned her car to
the mercy of traffic wardens and small-time thieves. Life still functioned at the base level in Lambeth. Survival of the fittest was the nature of the game here. Any respect or fear the local population had for the police had long since disappeared. They lived by their own laws now.
Security was expectedly tight at the NCIS building. Sally buzzed the video intercom and waited. A soulless male voice eventually answered.
“State your business, please.”
“DS Jones, Serious Crime Group. Here to see DS Graham Wright. I believe he works in Counterfeit Currency.” She held her identification up to the camera. The door was opened after a slight delay. She walked to the reception desk. The security guard was already waiting for her. He gave her a visitor’s name tag and directions to the Counterfeit Currency section. She nodded thanks and moved toward the lift.
When she reached the office, she found DS Wright sitting at his desk. He was a fit-looking man in his early forties. His dark hair was matched by clear olive skin. She found him attractive. “DS Graham Wright?” she asked.
He glanced up from his desk. “Yes. That’s me.”
“I’m DS Sally Jones, from SCG.” She felt Wright’s eyes scan her from head to toes and back.
“And what can I do for you, DS Jones?”
“Please,” she told him. “Call me Sally.”
“Well, Sally?”
“Fingerprints,” she said. “Missing fingerprints.” She studied him for a reaction. Maybe a hint of confusion, but nothing more. “Back in ninety-nine, you took a set of fingerprints out of the Yard.”
“Ninety-nine?” Wright protested. “I don’t think I’ll be able to remember back that far. Whose prints were they?”
“Stefan Korsakov’s,” she answered. Wright flushed a little. She noticed it. “You remember?”
“Sure,” he replied. “I remember.”
“How come? It was a long time ago.”
“Because I helped put the bastard away. If you’re here to tell me he’s dead, then you’ll make me a happy man.”
