Cold Killing dsc-1

by Luke Delaney

  His wife, Karen, confronted him as soon as he opened the front door. “You’re late again,” she accused in her East End accent. They’d been married for more than twenty years.

  “Overtime, my sweetness,” he answered. “May I remind you we need every penny I can lay my hands on?” His wife answered with a roll of her eyes. “Speaking of financial burdens, where are the kids?”

  Karen thrust her hands on her hips. “Jenny is out with her boyfriend, Adrian is out with his girlfriend, Nikki and Raymond are upstairs on the PlayStation, and Josh is in his bed.”

  “Jenny lives at home?” Donnelly asked with mock surprise.

  “She’s only seventeen, remember? Still at school, doing her A-levels?”

  “Bloody further education,” he moaned. “We’ll be broke before any of our lot get themselves a job and leave home. By the time I was seventeen I was working in the shipyards in Dumbarton, earning a decent wage and learning a proper trade.”

  “Until you decided it was too bloody hard and ran off to join the police in London.”

  “Aye, well,” he stalled. “All the same, I was paying my own way in the world.”

  “Spare me.”

  “Give us a kiss and I’ll think about it,” he teased.

  “I don’t bloody think so. When it comes to you, my mother was right: kissing does lead to children. And seeing how we’ve got four more than we can afford, you’re going to have to park your lips somewhere else. Besides, I hate it when your mustache tastes of beer.”

  “I’ve not touched a drop,” he lied.

  “A likely story.”

  “Very well, I shall retire to the living room,” he sulked in a put-on accent. “I need to watch Crimewatch tonight anyway.”

  “Jesus. Haven’t you had enough of the job for one day?”

  “Our case is on tonight. It would be bad form to miss it. It’ll be the talk of the canteen tomorrow.”

  “I wanted to watch that program about Princess Diana tonight.”

  “You can watch the repeat,” he told her unsympathetically.

  The television was already on in the living room. Some cheap production with a shaky set and worse acting. He pointed the remote at the offending program and surfed the channels until he found what he was looking for.

  “When is your case on?” Karen asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to watch the whole bloody thing, no doubt. Bloody Crimewatch. Waste of bloody space, if you ask me.”

  “Oi. Stop your swearing, the kids might hear.”

  “Saying ‘bloody’ isn’t swearing.” He flopped his heavy frame into the old armchair reserved for his sole use. “Media appeals, waste of time. Expecting the public to solve crimes for us. It’s not how we used to get the job done.”

  “We all know how you used to get the job done,” Karen said.

  “Bloody right. We did what we had to do to keep the baddies off the streets. We may have sent the wrong man down for the wrong crime, but they were all criminals anyway. It’s our job to put them away. Didn’t matter how we did it, so long as we got the job done. The people we put away never complained either. They knew the score. For them it was just an occupational hazard. It’s my job to keep the scum off the streets. How I do it is my business. Everyone else can stay in their nice, fluffy little worlds.”

  “The old days are gone,” Karen reminded him. “So you had better be careful.”

  “Aye,” he grumbled. “Don’t worry about me, love. I can look after myself.”

  “I don’t doubt it, but who’s going to look after me and the kids if you get the sack for fitting someone up?”

  “Murders are different. You don’t fit people up with murder. Maybe you can give the evidence a bit of help here and there, once you’re absolutely certain you’ve got the right man, but you never fit someone up.”

  “Your DI Corrigan doesn’t sound like the sort of man who would want you giving the evidence a bit of help.”

  “Don’t underestimate the man,” he told her. “Corrigan knows the score. He’s no accelerated-promotion, graduate-entry brownnoser. He’s come up the hard way. If push comes to shove, he’ll do what it takes.”

  “Sure of that, are you?”

  “Absolutely sure.”

  Linda Kotler half watched Crimewatch. She listened to the item about the murder of Daniel Graydon and then the next item too. A sixty-year-old post office attendant killed in Humberside for a hundred and twenty pounds. It was not improving her mood. She changed the station to watch something less oppressive, but found herself thinking of the policeman from earlier. Sean Corrigan.

  The telephone interrupted her reminiscing. Despite her loneliness, she decided to leave it until the answering machine betrayed the caller. It was her sister. Perhaps she was in the mood to speak after all. She had a secret to share.

  “It’s me. It’s me,” she said into the phone. “Ignore the answering machine. I’m here, I’m here. Damn thing’s going to record us now.”

  “Screening your calls again?” her sister asked. “That’s a nasty habit you Londoners have.”

  “We have to,” Linda replied. “Otherwise the only people we’d ever speak to would be telesales people and unwanted relatives. How are you?”

  “We’re all good, thanks.” Her sister was married to a man she’d been at school with. They had three children. She was younger than Linda. Once, her sister had been a little jealous of her. Now Linda was a little jealous of her sister.

  “What about you?” her sister asked. “Met a nice, good-looking man yet? Preferably rich?” It was the same question she’d been asking for the past few months. Since he had left for pastures new and green.

  “No,” Linda said. Then added, “Not really.”

  “Not really?” Her sister’s tone was inquisitive. “What does ‘not really’ mean, exactly?”

  “Well, I met this guy on the way home today and one way or the other we ended up talking. He seemed really nice, and good-looking too. It’s not like we swapped numbers or anything, although if he wanted to find me, he could.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because he’s a policeman. A detective, I think.”

  “Ooh” was her sister’s reply. “And does he have a name?”

  “Sean,” Linda answered. “Sean Corrigan.”

  Having introduced myself, I let her go. For a while anyway. It’s the way I’ve seen it happening. Now I need to lose myself for a few hours. Wait for my old friend the darkness to arrive. I’ve done my homework and know the boat show is on at Earl’s Court Exhibition Centre. I have absolutely no interest in it, but it is nearby and doesn’t close until eleven. It’s a good place to hide myself. In a crowd, among the herd.

  I mingle with them, my mask as secure as ever. It would be all too easy to lash out at them. Drag whoever into the stinking toilets and slaughter them there. But it is lack of control that more often than not undoes my kind. Control is the key. Control is everything.

  How I admire the man with the rifle in Germany who features in the news reports every now and then. Every three months or so he blows the head off a nobody and disappears. He is a rare breed indeed. Most sniper killers take a rifle, find themselves a nice little vantage point, and kill until they are killed.

  Why? Because they lack the control. Once they taste the power to kill, they just can’t stop. To take one life and then calmly pack away the rifle and go home is too much for most. They get greedy, drunk on the killing, and before they realize what’s happened, they’re surrounded by police marksmen. Most make the decision to go down fighting, but not this one in Germany. He is to be admired. I shouldn’t think he’ll ever be stopped.

  Me, I prefer a knife. Or my own hands. A rifle’s not personal enough. I like to smell their last breath in my face.

  I leave the show after eleven. I walk back to Shepherd’s Bush. It’s a fair walk, but I could use the exercise. It’s a good warm-up and also means I avoid potential witnesses like bus or taxi dr
ivers. Pedestrians in London rarely look at each other. I’m carrying a small knapsack slung over my shoulder. It contains all I need.

  By the time I get back to Minford Gardens, it’s close to midnight. Late enough for most people to be tucked up in bed, early enough for the sounds of the night not to be too alarming.

  I move around to the side of the house. I checked the window here a few nights previously. It’s a sash window, leading to the bathroom. The lock is a classic style. A simple spin-around metal latch. Any thin metal object will make short work of opening it. She should have added side deadlock bolts. She probably used to share the flat with a man. That made her feel safe when she slept. Now she’s alone, but hasn’t had time to see to the window. On these warm nights she sleeps with the windows closed. Clearly she’s not totally unaware of the dangers that lurk in this city.

  Most of the upstairs windows are virtually impossible to reach, but not the bathroom window. There’s a solid metal drainpipe that runs past it. It’s secured to the wall with large steel brackets riveted to the brickwork. It’ll take my weight. I’ve already tried.

  I begin to strip. I remove my shirt and tie. My trousers. Shoes, socks, underpants. I fold them all very neatly and place them in a pile beside the drainpipe. The alley by the side of the house is dark and quiet. No one would have cause to come down here at this hour. The feeling of standing naked in the warm dark night is beyond the imagination of most. The blood pumps through me, bringing me to life. I stay in the alley longer than I’d intended, but it is not a moment to be rushed. I wish I had a full-length mirror to watch myself in-and rain. Heavy warm drops of rain pounding against my skin, forming small, fast-flowing streams that would find the channels of my swelling, aching muscles, making my skin shine like steel in the moonlight, the water flowing over my body looking like liquid metal, like mercury. If only it was raining. Never mind.

  I pull a pair of tracksuit bottoms from the bag and put them on. I bought them from JD Sports in Oxford Street about a month ago. I also pull on a tracksuit top, bought at the same time, from the same place. They’re matching blue. I take a roll of wide gaffer’s tape from the bag and meticulously tape the bottom of the trousers around my ankles and the tops of the shoes. I need to seal the gap. I take a pair of new leather gloves bought from Selfridges and put them on. Rubber ones would have torn on the drainpipe. I use the tape to seal the gap at my wrists. I pull a stocking over my head. It doesn’t cover my face; there’s no need for that so long as it covers my hair neatly.

  Last but not least, I put on a pair of flat rubber-soled shoes, bought a week ago from Tesco. I’ve never worn any of the items before. I hid them in the tiny parking garage at work until I needed them, in one of the ventilation shafts.

  The shoes have little grip so I use my upper-body strength alone to pull myself up the drainpipe. I’ll let my legs dangle. If I start to use them to climb, I run the risk of making too many scuff marks on the wall. I’d rather keep the police guessing as to how I got in for a while, although ultimately I want them to work it out.

  I make certain the knapsack is secure over my left shoulder, hanging so the bag is to my front. I begin to climb. I keep my legs crossed at the ankles, to help resist the temptation to use them to help. The leather gloves give me a good grip as I pull myself up. It’s not too difficult and I keep enough control to make the climb fast and silent.

  The ledge of the bathroom window is narrow and rotting, but I can rest a knee on it safely enough. I hold on to the drainpipe with my right hand and slip the other into the bag. I pull out a small metal ruler, the type favored by architects and surveyors. I work it into the gap between the upper and lower panes and begin to work the latch.

  It takes a few minutes to do it quietly. Millimeter by millimeter I rotate the catch. My right arm is burning with the effort of holding on to the drainpipe and my knee is growing sore. It’ll be bruised for sure. That’s unfortunate.

  Once the catch is open, I put my left hand flat against the bottom pane and push the window in gently. I can feel it is a little loose in its fitting. It’ll make a noise if I’m not extremely careful and patient.

  I pinch the protruding wooden frame and carefully apply upward pressure. At first nothing happens. The window is stiff. I ease on more force. It slides upward too much and makes a noise. Damn it to hell. I freeze flat against the wall, clinging to the drainpipe like a lizard. I listen hard. I wait like that for at least a minute. It seems an hour. I’m glad I’ve been exercising as much as I have.

  Nothing stirs. I slip my left hand under the window’s base. I’ll be able to apply more even upward pressure now. I’m past the worst, though I still take my time.

  When the window’s open fully I throw my left leg through, then my left arm. I have to contort to get my head and upper body through. My right leg and arm trail after me through the window like smoke seeping through a gap under a door.

  As soon as I enter the flat, I can smell her. Every room will smell like her, I know it. The bedroom will be the strongest odor of all.

  It’s dark in the bathroom, but my eyes are already used to it. I can see I’m standing in her bath. The chrome taps are on my right, shining in the dark. I have little interest in the bathroom. Too many other smells that mask her scent. I can see that the door is closed. Unfortunate. More risk of noise. It’s only midnight. She may not be asleep yet. Noise is my enemy now. Sometimes it is my ally.

  I move stealthily across the small bathroom. I exaggerate my movements. I look like a ballet dancer performing an animalistic dance, my muscles tensing together. I wish I could be naked to feel her presence against my skin, but I can’t take that risk. I remain sealed in my forensic cocoon. I turn the handle on the bathroom door. It’s in good order and makes no noise. I inch the door open, patiently, controlled. As the door opens to the rest of the flat, the smell of her rushes through the gap. I inhale deeply, almost too deeply. I feel a little dizzy. My blood flows so quickly I can feel my temples thumping. A drop of sweat is cool in the cleft of my upper lip. I wipe it away. I won’t leave any of me here. Not even a drop of sweat.

  My erection is growing fast, but I won’t rush. There are things to prepare. I move along the corridor, away from her bedroom. The entire flat is in darkness. No flickering of a TV screen. No noise at all.

  I enter the living room. It’s too dark to make out details, but it looks fairly cluttered. Too much furniture. Too many cheap prints on the walls. Too many ornaments. I stand in the middle of the room, away from the windows, relishing being here alone. What was hers is now mine. This will be the best yet. I’ve learned so much. I’ll take my time, and when I’m finished her very being will be mine.

  After almost half an hour I move to the kitchen and silently search through the cupboards and drawers until I find what I need. A knife. It’s not very new or sharp, but it’s a nice intimidating shape. Slightly curved blade and a metal handle. It’ll do.

  I go back to the corridor and begin to walk toward her bedroom. The corridor is much darker than the room ahead. The streetlights don’t penetrate this far into the flat. The warm glowing yellow light of the bedroom draws me like a moth. I move so very slowly. This is perfection. Exactly how I’ve seen it. Each step is choreographed. How I wish I could be naked. My penis is so hard I fear I may reach orgasm before even getting to the bedroom, but I will not rush this.

  I reach the open bedroom door. I begin to push it slowly open with my left arm. It swings gently aside. I can see her. Lying in her bed.

  I cross the bedroom. She hasn’t closed the blinds properly. The streetlights cast a long shadow of me as I walk toward her.

  I reach her and stand by the bed. She hasn’t sensed me yet. I watch her breathing. Her skin looks metallic in the dark. Like the black-gray metal of a gun. Her chest rises and falls gently, but I can tell she is not yet in a deep sleep. I am surprised she hasn’t woken. I stand and wait.

  She turns onto her back and stops. Her eyes begin to open. She sees me and bli
nks a couple of times. She seems to recognize me. Her mouth is open in surprise, but she doesn’t scream or speak. The surprise is overwhelming her.

  She becomes fully awake. I see the fear spread across her face. I smash my right fist into it. She begins to turn before the impact and the blow hits her full in her left cheek. I think I feel the bone break. She makes a funny little noise.

  Before she regains her senses, I grab her around the throat with my left hand and lift her upward and backward with one arm. I crash the back of her head into the wall and let her fall, unconscious, back onto the bed. I watch her for a few seconds. She’s still alive. Good.

  Her mind woke a split second before the rest of her body. When the body caught up, her eyes fired open. Jesus, God please help me.

  She desperately needed to fill her lungs with air, but couldn’t. Something was across her mouth. She tried again to open her jaws. It was no use. She couldn’t tell what it was, but it hurt.

  Had she been raped? Why had he left her like this? For the first time since regaining consciousness, she felt the pain in her cheek. It was an excruciating dull, throbbing pain. Her left eye was already swollen shut. It was so painful it masked the pain at the back of her head completely.

  She tried to get up off the bed. Simultaneously something tightened around her throat and ankles. She tried to move her hands. Something tightened around her wrists. She felt around with her fingers as much as possible. She realized they were touching her own feet. She’d been tied like a dead animal. She became aware of her own nakedness. The panic that could so easily kill her began to rise to new levels as the horror of what could have happened while she was unconscious dawned.