Cold Killing dsc-1

by Luke Delaney

  Did the killer come in here? If so, why? To be among her things? To spend a moment with the photographs of the victim that were scattered all over the room? Would he have put a light on to see better? Sean doubted it. Maybe he used a torch? If he did and if he was the same killer, it would have been the first time he used one. Again, Sean doubted it.

  He’d been in here though. Sean was sure of it. He scanned the room over and over. Is this where the killer came to prepare himself? Not to put on his gloves and other protective clothing-he would have done that outside, before he entered. But to be among her possessions, the very heart of her life. To form a connection with her. The more he connected with her, the sweeter it would be when the moment came to move down the corridor to her bedroom.

  Hellier had a connection with the second victim, Daniel Graydon, albeit a fleeting one. Did he have a connection with the first, Heather Freeman? Had the murder team in the east missed something? Sean resolved to go back and check. Was there a connection between the killer and this latest scene? Between Hellier and the third victim?

  Did the killer touch anything in here? Take off a glove and touch anything? No. He was too controlled for that. Always in control. No mistakes. He would have confined himself to looking. So he’d stood and looked. Just as Sean was doing now.

  Sean left the room and moved back into the hallway. He pushed a door open on his left. It was a small bedroom, being used for storage. Stuffed and tied bin liners littered the floor. The room wasn’t in keeping with the rest of the flat. It was cold and impersonal. Whoever lived here didn’t come in very often. What was in those bin liners? They appeared to be waiting for someone to come and take them away. Sean spotted the handle of a cricket bat protruding from one of the bags. A man had recently been living in the flat. Had he lived with the victim? Probably. Was he a jilted lover? Almost certainly. A suspect? He would have to be.

  If the room held little for the victim, then it would hold less for her killer. Sean couldn’t feel him in this place. He left, pulling the door back as he found it, careful not to touch the handle.

  He moved slowly down the hallway and pushed open the next door on the left. The bathroom. It smelled like a woman’s bathroom. Dozens of bottles of brightly colored liquids could be seen all over. Creams, makeup, cotton balls, lotions and potions of all descriptions had found their way onto most of the flat surfaces. Sean thought about how a single man’s bathroom would look in comparison. A comb, razor, shaving foam, maybe some hair and shower gel. Aftershave, if he really cared about his appearance. The victim clearly liked to spend time in this room. The room reminded him of Kate. He shook the thought away. His wife had no place here.

  The bathroom was very personal to the victim. Was it therefore personal to the killer? He would definitely have been in here, but did he stay? What would have attracted him? What was so personal to her that he may have had to touch it? Maybe he held it up to his face, to his nose, to be as close to her scent as he could. Maybe he had to taste her? Maybe he licked something? If he did, he would have left his DNA.

  Sean looked hard at the items in the bathroom. Nothing particularly caught his attention. She kept it cluttered but clean. There was nothing here the killer couldn’t have resisted. A hairbrush that still had some hair in the bristles was the most likely, but Sean wasn’t hopeful. Nevertheless, it might be worth special attention. Send it to the lab for DNA and fingerprints instead of dusting it on-site.

  As he turned toward the door a sunray hit the catch on the small sash window. The reflection was wrong. Uneven. There should have been one starburst of light off the chrome catch, but Sean could see dozens.

  The window was directly above the bath. Sean didn’t want to have to climb into the bath to get closer. If the killer somehow came in or went out through this window he would almost certainly have had to put a foot in the bath. Sean wouldn’t risk stepping on a print. He couldn’t see one with the naked eye, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

  He examined the window frame from where he was. No deadlocks, only the catch. Easy to open. Horribly easy. A novice burglar could do it in seconds. Sean couldn’t help but think how a ten-pound deadlock might have saved her life. He felt sick at the thought.

  He imagined the killer climbing in and out of the window. Where would he have been least likely to touch? He decided on the area of wall directly below and central to the window. He crouched down and reached across the bath with his left arm. He placed the side of his gloved palm against the wall and leaned forward so his face was only inches from the window catch.

  Scratches. Dozens of small thin scratches. Fresh, without a doubt. Fresh cuts in metal were always screamingly obvious. They glared like shiny new wounds, but within days they dulled, rusted, or stained. These were newborn.

  There would be a drainpipe outside the window. This was the bathroom, so there had to be a drainpipe. He would check the outside, but he already knew what he’d find.

  Another change of method, Sean thought. This man’s already thinking of court. A decent defense solicitor would have a field day with this one. The police trying to say three completely different murders were all linked. Sean wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.

  He knew more than ever that he needed something to hang Hellier with. Some piece of indisputable evidence. If he could at least prove Hellier had committed one murder, maybe he would confess to the others. Appeal to his ego. If he didn’t confess, no one would ever know how clever he’d been. How he’d outfoxed the police. If Sean could prove one, he’d run with it. He wouldn’t wait to be able to prove the others. But a sudden chill froze him, as he pictured the image of a man snaking in through the bathroom window-a man who wasn’t James Hellier. The sudden unexpected doubt momentarily terrified him-was he derailing the investigation with his own prejudice against Hellier and all his perceived type stood for? No. He shook the doubt away, remembering how he felt every time he was in Hellier’s presence, the animalistic scent of a survivor, a predator that he’d smelled on him the very moment they first met. He was right about Hellier-he had to be. He mustn’t allow himself to be confused by Hellier’s camouflaging tactics.

  Memories of Hellier’s lies and all-too-convenient alibis reassured him, his considerable efforts to avoid their surveillance, and the crucial fact that he knew at least one of the victims-Daniel Graydon. Sean had no doubts. Hellier was psychopathically bad to the core, so if Hellier hadn’t killed Graydon then that would have to mean Graydon had randomly come into contact with not only one killer, but two. The chances of that were negligible. Satisfied, Sean breathed out a long sigh.

  Carefully, he moved out of the bathroom and back into the corridor. The bedroom loomed before him. He had another room to see first. He crossed the hallway and entered the kitchen, again standing to the side to preserve any evidence on the floor. He was suddenly aware of a crushing thirst. But he wouldn’t use a tap at the scene, fearful of destroying evidence that might be hiding in the drains of the sink, just waiting to be found. His thirst would have to wait.

  The kitchen was small and a little dingy. The units were from the early eighties and badly needed a face-lift. The oven was old too, made of white metal and free-standing. The killer wouldn’t have liked this room, Sean decided, but he would have come in here. Maybe he took a knife from a cupboard to threaten the victim with? Maybe he took a knife to kill her with, only to change his mind? If he was to be true to form, he’d want to change the way he killed as well as the way he entered. All the knives in the kitchen would be taken away for examination as a matter of routine.

  Sean didn’t stay in the kitchen long. Neither had the killer. He stepped backward into the hallway. The door to the bedroom was closed, but not shut altogether. Had it swung shut itself, on uneven hinges? Or had DS Simpson or DC Watson pushed it to in an attempt to show the victim some last respect?

  Sean put the side of his left palm on the place the suspect was least likely to have touched, the very top center, bet
ween the two oblong panels. He pushed gently. The door swung silently open.

  Donnelly and Sally stood next to their car, smoking. Sally had found a café nearby that sold good coffee. It didn’t taste like the coffee sold in the cafés around Peckham. Her mobile rang. She flicked her cigarette away before answering. “Sally Jones speaking.”

  “Detective Sergeant Jones?”

  “Who’s asking?” She hadn’t recognized the voice.

  “You probably won’t remember me. My name is Sebastian Gibran. We met at my office when you came to see an employee of mine-James Hellier.”

  She remembered now. It was the senior partner from Hellier’s finance firm. “I remember,” she told him. “But what I don’t remember is giving you this mobile number.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, I phoned your office first, but you weren’t there. Another detective was good enough to give me your number.”

  She wasn’t impressed. Giving out a team member’s mobile number to unseen parties was a definite no-no. “What is it I can do for you, Mr. Gibran?”

  “Not something I want to discuss over the phone, you understand? I feel it’s better if we meet, somewhere private. It’s a sensitive matter.”

  “Why don’t you come to the police station?”

  “I’d rather not be seen there, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Where then?” Sally asked.

  “Can you meet me for lunch tomorrow? I know a place that’ll fit me in at short notice. We’ll be able to talk freely there.”

  Overconfident bastard, but what was there to lose? “Okay. Where and when?”

  “Excellent,” Gibran responded. “Che, just off Piccadilly, at one o’clock tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be there,” Sally told him.

  “I look forward to it.” She heard him hang up. Her expression was pensive.

  “Problem?” Donnelly asked.

  “No. At least I don’t think so. That was Sebastian Gibran, Hellier’s boss. He wants to meet for a chat.”

  “Well, well. Maybe Hellier’s fancy friends are getting set to abandon him to his fate.”

  “The ritual washing of hands,” she declared. “Not to mention a free lunch for yours truly.”

  “Do you want some company at this little get-together?”

  “No. I get the feeling it’ll go better if I meet him alone.”

  “Fair enough, but don’t forget to run it past the boss before you go,” Donnelly warned her.

  “Naturally. Listen, I need to follow up on something over in Surbiton. The boss can do without me here for a while. I’ll check back with you later, okay?”

  “Suit yourself,” Donnelly replied. “I’ll let the guv’nor know you’ve commandeered his vehicle.”

  “No doubt that’ll make him very happy,” she said. “Almost as happy as when he finds out I still haven’t eliminated Korsakov as a possible suspect.”

  “You will.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, the more I look into it, the more I don’t like it. Something’s not right-I don’t know what it is yet, but I know it’s something.”

  “Christ. You’re getting as bad as the guv’nor.”

  “No, seriously,” Sally argued. “It’s like everything to do with Korsakov has disappeared, as if someone made him vanish.”

  “Why would anyone do that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe, for some reason, they’re hiding him, so he can commit further offenses without being identified. Or maybe. .”

  “Go on,” Donnelly encouraged her. “You’re among friends here.”

  “Or, maybe someone got rid of him-killed him.”

  “Like who?”

  “One of his victims, or someone connected to one of his victims, someone looking for revenge.”

  “An eye for an eye,” Donnelly suggested.

  “Or,” Sally continued, “someone got rid of him so they could commit crimes they knew we would eventually blame him for, because of the similarity of the method-have us chasing a dead man we’d never be able to find.”

  “Now you really do sound like the guv’nor,” Donnelly told her. “Speaking of which, have you discussed this with him?”

  “Sort of. But he’s so fixated on Hellier, I don’t think he took it seriously.”

  “I know what you mean,” Donnelly agreed. “But don’t let him stop you doing what you think you should be doing. Remember, it’s our job to keep him on the straight and narrow-anchor him a bit-you know?”

  She knew. “I’ll catch you later,” she said, and headed for the car.

  The large bed was straight in front of Sean, the victim lying on it, a pretty red light softly illuminating the room. Sean checked for the source of the light. He found it in the far-right corner of the room. A thin red silk dressing gown was draped over a lampshade. At night the red illumination would have been far stronger. Had the victim constructed the homemade light? Did it stir a childhood memory? Had her nursery been lit with a red light and now the color helped her sleep?

  No. The killer had made the light. He was sure of it. But had he made it after he’d killed her or before? And why? What did the victim look like as she died, painted with red light? Had the red been a replacement for her blood? But if blood is so important to him, why not cut her like the others? Method, Sean reminded himself. He’s changing his method again. Disguising his work.

  The killer was showing his intelligence, his control, and his imagination. It was extremely rare for killers to have the ability to change methods so completely. They lack control. Their killings are repetitions. Some try and disguise their kills, but usually only after the murder. They’ll burn the body, place it in a car and push it off a cliff, sink it in deep water; but to plan the disguise from the outset, to ensure that everything from the victim selection to the murder weapon changes every time-that was incredibly rare. It made the killer all the more dangerous.

  Did this killer have enough control to simply stop? To walk away and never kill again? That would be the ultimate show of his strength. Had he killed enough now to live off his memories? Sean thought of Hellier’s public face. Absolutely calm, calculating, and clever. But he had seen glimpses of the creature that hid behind Hellier’s public facade. The snarling, arrogant Hellier. Could that Hellier stop killing? No, he decided. Hellier liked the game too much. He would have to be stopped.

  Staying as close to the walls as he could, he moved clockwise around the room toward Linda Kotler.

  He passed a set of wooden drawers. They looked solid and expensive. One drawer was still open. He looked in without touching anything as he took one large step around them. He could see it was where the victim kept her tights and stockings. Had the killer or the victim opened the drawer? One glance at the body told him the killer had. He wouldn’t risk buying or stealing his own. A man buying stockings could easily be remembered by a sales assistant. A wife might become suspicious if her stockings or tights went missing. She might read about this murder and begin to suspect a husband, a boyfriend, a son. The killer would have been relatively sure he’d find what he was looking for inside the victim’s home. No need to risk bringing his own.

  Sean kept moving around the room until he was no more than three feet away from the victim. He stopped. He wouldn’t go closer for fear of disturbing any forensic evidence. The three-foot circumference around the body would be the golden zone.

  He studied the body, slowly and deliberately scanning it from head to toe and back. He tried to remain dispassionate, removed, as if the body weren’t real, as if this was only an exercise.

  She was lying on her left side. Naked and pale now. Lifeless. She looked anything but peaceful. The dead never looked peaceful, at least not until a skilled undertaker did his work. One eye was half open. The other was swollen shut. He tried to imagine her alive. She’d have been quite attractive, he thought, but it was hard to tell.

  Her legs were bent painfully far
back. The thin, tightly stretched tights bound her ankles. They had cut into the skin. They were connected to another pair that ran up her back to her neck. This was in turn connected to another pair of tights or perhaps stockings, tightly bound around the neck. The flesh of the throat bulged around the ligature, concealing most of the material. Her hands had been bound separately at the wrists with more of her own tights. The hands had become swollen by the tightness of the bindings. Why had the hands been tied separately? So elaborate. It reminded Sean of the rigging on a yacht. The knots used would have to be analyzed. What sort were they? Were they used in sailing or some other sport or hobby?

  Why did he need the bindings to connect so precisely? Bondage? Hellier’s favorite. Was he deliberately tormenting them?

  She must have been in terrible pain. She would have tried to call out in pain, scream for help. Her killer wouldn’t have let that happen. He would have gagged her. But her mouth wasn’t covered. Sean leaned closer to her face. The area around the mouth was a little red. It looked sore. Had the killer used tape that he’d taken away with him? If so, he’d done that before. Heather Freeman had been taped across the mouth, but the tape had been removed and taken from the scene. The more he killed, the more similarities would start to appear. No matter how hard he worked at disguising his methods. The mouth area would need to be swabbed for traces of adhesive at the postmortem.

  The left side of her face was badly bruised and swollen. Judging by the level of bruising, the injury had been caused at least an hour before she died. He guessed this was the first blow, used to incapacitate her. The killer hit her as she rose up from her sleep, knocking her senseless. There was no blood or cut around the injury. He probably used a gloved fist.

  A small amount of blood on the floor, by the back of the victim’s head, caught his attention. Nothing more than a slight smear. He carefully moved around the body to get a better look. He saw the telltale signs of a bleeding head injury. The sticky hair. Not much, but a definite injury.