by Luke Delaney
He scanned the room for an obvious weapon. He saw something, on the wall behind the bed. He stood and bent toward it, careful not to step too close. There was blood on the wall. Not much, but he was sure it would later be confirmed as the victim’s. The killer had slammed her head into the wall to make certain she was unconscious, because he needed time to find the bindings and secure her.
And then what? She wasn’t killed quickly. The bruises to her face, ankles, wrists, neck: they all told the same tale of a slow, painful death. Was that what the elaborate bindings were for? To torture her before killing her? Spending time with them after the killing wasn’t enough anymore? The killer had progressed to spending time with them before they died. Or was it merely another attempt to muddy the waters and confuse those who hunted him?
Unlike Heather Freeman, this victim was a grown woman. Fully developed. She’d been stripped naked and bound. Was she sexually abused? Raped while she was still alive? He was sure she had been. Forensic tests would no doubt confirm his hypothesis. Another progression, or another act of camouflage by the killer?
The longer he was alone in the room with Linda Kotler, the harder it was to treat the murder scene like an exercise. Her pain and sorrow had begun to penetrate his shield. The more he discovered, the closer, the more real the murder became. It began to run in his head like film footage. Now he had almost a full scene. The killer entering through the bathroom window, stalking through the flat. He finds her in bed and looms over her. She awakens and sees him standing there. A fist smashes into her face. Before she can recover, he lifts her and smashes her head into the wall. She falls unconscious. She awakens. She doesn’t know how long she’s been out. She can’t move. She feels the pain of her bound limbs. Something around her neck stops her breathing properly. She desperately needs air. Something over her mouth stops her from calling out. Stops her from begging for her life. Then she feels him on her. He forces entry into her. It hurts like nothing before. She blanks it out of her mind. Staying alive is all that matters. But when he’s finished, he doesn’t leave. He spends time torturing her. And then, finally, he strangles her to death.
Sean could hear her voice in his head. Pleading with the killer to leave her alone. Pleading with him not to hurt her. Then pleading for her life. All wasted. The gag meant he wouldn’t have heard her. He would have liked to listen to her begging, but he couldn’t risk the noise.
A loud knocking on the bedroom door made him jump. Instinctively he reached for the telescopic metal truncheon clipped to his waist belt. Then he looked to the door and recognized DI Vicky Townsend standing there, grim faced.
“They told me it was a bad one,” she said. “Seems they weren’t exaggerating.”
“Bad enough,” Sean replied.
DI Townsend made to cross the threshold of the bedroom. Sean shot a hand up, palm outstretched toward her. “Not dressed like that you don’t.”
She looked herself up and down. She was wearing one of her favorite suits, dark blue and tailored, with two-inch heels to match. She feigned insult. “This is my best suit.”
“Then you wouldn’t want me to take it off you and stick it in a brown paper bag as evidence.”
“You would too, wouldn’t you?” she asked. “Well, you certainly haven’t changed.”
“You wouldn’t want me to.”
“No, probably not.”
DI Vicky Townsend waited for Sean outside the flat in the street. She watched him pulling off the forensic suit and laughed a little as he carefully placed the suit and shoe covers into evidence bags and sealed them. Ever the professional, she thought. He’d always been the most meticulous detective she’d worked with. Back in his street clothes, he approached her.
“How’ve you been, Vicky?” he asked.
“Good, Sean. Good. Kids drive me mad, but you know.”
“I’ve got two myself now,” he told her. “Two girls.”
“Still with Kate then?” She’d only met Kate a couple of times, briefly. Most police liked to keep work and home very separate.
“Yeah,” Sean answered. “She’s good, you know. A good mother.”
“Good,” Vicky replied. They were both avoiding the obvious question. This was Vicky’s territory. It was up to her to challenge Sean, friend or foe.
“So what are you doing over here, Sean? Why’s a DI from SCG South arriving at my murder scene before I know about it?”
Sean looked a little sheepishly at Vicky. She hadn’t changed much either. She kept her auburn hair short and neat, for the practicalities of being a mother rather than those of being a police officer. Her plain face was improved by lots of laughter lines.
“I think this murder’s linked to others,” he told her.
“Linked in what way? A drug war? Gangland?”
“If only. This is something else. A possible repeat offender.” He hated using the term “serial killer.” It seemed to somehow glamorize tragedy.
“As in Yorkshire Ripper-type repeat offender?” Vicky asked.
“I suppose so.”
“And you’ve been authorized to run a task force on this?”
“My superintendent is happy for me to take on any suspected linked cases. He’ll square it with yours in due course. In the meantime, I could do with all the help I can get.”
“Such as?” Vicky asked.
“I need a few things to happen straightaway.”
“Go on.”
“Check the mouth area for tape residue. I think her mouth was taped and the killer took it away with him. Check the drainpipe at the side of the house, and the bathroom window needs special attention. That’s how he got in and out. And I would like you to use my pathologist. He’s the best in London and he’s worked one of the other victims. I can make the call to him and get him to look at the body while it’s still in the flat. After that he’ll probably want it taken to his own mortuary at Guy’s Hospital.”
“All victims from West London should go to Charing Cross,” said Vicky. “The postmortem should be performed by the pathologists for this area. There’s a lot of red tape around things like that. People get pissed off pretty quick if you start to ignore protocols.”
“I understand, but the man who did this is still out there and he doesn’t give a shit about our red tape. He doesn’t care if he kills in South London, East London, or West London. He just kills, and he’ll do everything he can to not get caught. So why don’t we stop helping the bastard and break a few rules ourselves? Because if we don’t, I reckon we’ve got about one or maybe two weeks before I’ll be standing outside some other flat in some other part of London having the same conversation with some other DI.” He ended with a plea. “Let’s not let that happen. Please.”
Vicky studied him for a couple of seconds. “Okay,” she said finally. “I have a pretty good relationship with the pathologist for this area. I’ll explain that it’s an unusual situation.”
“Thanks. Now we need to get started. Time is not my friend here.”
“It never is,” she reminded him. “And it never will be.”
Sally waited for the door to the Surbiton house to open. When it did she noted the look of surprise on Paul Jarratt’s face.
“DS Jones,” he said.
“Sorry to disturb you again,” she apologized, “but would you believe it, I just happened to be in the area when I suddenly remembered something I needed to check with you.”
“Such as?” Jarratt asked, before remembering his manners. “Please. Come in.”
Sally stepped inside and followed him to the living room. “I spoke with an old colleague of yours, DC Graham Wright-only he’s a DS now.”
“Graham?”
“I was doing some digging into Korsakov’s history and was hoping to compare his conviction fingerprints with marks found at our murder scene.”
“And?”
“They’ve gone missing. Seems they got up and walked out of Scotland Yard all by themselves.”
“I wouldn’t have thought that was possib
le.”
“No. Nor would I,” Sally agreed. “DS Wright told me that he’d taken the prints from the Yard at your request. Do you recall why you pulled the prints?”
“I seem to remember the prison where Korsakov was doing his time wanted them, but I can’t remember the details. Although I do remember giving the prints back to Graham so he could return them.”
“And return them he did, at least according to Fingerprints’ records.”
“Then I don’t see how I can help you find them.”
“It’s just that you requested them back in ninety-nine,” said Sally. “Not long before Korsakov was released from prison. That seems a little unusual.”
Jarratt laughed. “DS Jones, everything to do with Korsakov was a little unusual. However, I remember now. The prison needed the prints to copy onto their records. They liked to keep fingerprints of prisoners they deemed to be more dangerous than the norm. I suppose they consider it to be some sort of deterrent.”
“Why would they wait until a few months before his release to decide that Korsakov needed such a deterrent?”
“That, I cannot answer,” Jarratt told her. “You would have to speak to the prison.”
Sally sighed. “Oh, I don’t think there’s any need for that,” she lied. “At the end of the day it still wouldn’t explain how the prints went missing. Probably just an administrative cock-up at Fingerprint Branch. I’ve wasted enough of your time.”
“Not a problem,” said Jarratt.
They said their good-byes and Sally made her way to her car. She drove a couple of blocks before pulling over and retrieving the Korsakov file from her bag. She flicked through it and found the number she was looking for. Then she paused momentarily, remembering that Sean knew nothing of her investigation’s progress. Perhaps she should call him now, put him in the picture; but he had so many other things on his mind it would be better to speak to him later. She dialed and waited a long time before a military-sounding voice answered.
“Wandsworth Prison. What can I do you for?”
Sean and Vicky approached the Barnes police station. They’d been outside the scene for a while, briefing the forensics team and liaising with the coroner’s office. Sean had arranged to meet Sally at Barnes and update her. The police building was as ugly as ever. They parked outside the four-story construction, bright red bricks in too-straight lines. It was hard to spot a window. When you did it was blacked out.
Vicky led the way to her office. It was three times the size of Sean’s and ten times cleaner and more organized. Sally, having returned from Surbiton, was waiting for them outside the office. Sean introduced her to Vicky and vice versa. The two female detectives eyed each other with a little suspicion. Sean felt it.
Vicky lifted a note she found on her desk. She looked at Sean. “It’s for you. Your pathologist has arrived at the scene, a Dr. Canning.”
“Good.”
“And we’ve traced a sister. The first detectives on the scene, Simpson and Watson, found it in her address book. She’s already on the fast train up from Devon. Squad car will pick her up at the station and bring her straight here. Should be with us soon.”
“Parents?” Sally asked.
Vicky scanned the note. “Yeah. They live in Spain. Retired. Apparently they’ll be here when they can get a flight. That won’t be easy at this time of year. Do you want to see the sister?”
Sean glanced across at Sally. “Yeah. Why not?”
“I’ll arrange it now. Meanwhile, why don’t you tell me about your suspect? What’ve you got on him so far?”
“James Hellier,” Sean said. “A wealthy, polished act. Works for a fancy firm of financiers in Knightsbridge. Self-confessed sadomasochist. Last night he took our surveillance team on a runaround. He lost them about six P.M. He wasn’t picked up again until he got home, sometime after three A.M.”
Vicky raised her eyebrows. “The man knows he’s under surveillance and still he travels to Shepherd’s Bush and commits murder?”
“He can’t stop himself,” Sean told her. “The fact he knows he’s under surveillance probably only adds to his pleasure.”
“If you’re so sure, let’s arrest him, strip him, swab him, and have forensics do the rest,” said Vicky.
“We’ve tried that,” Sean explained. “With the first murder. We found samples matching him at the scene, but he had an answer for everything. Claimed to have been having a long-standing sexual relationship with the victim. It was a waste of time. We showed our hand too soon. Handed him the initiative.
“The second scene was different,” he continued. “A young girl called Heather Freeman, a runaway teenager. She was abducted and killed on waste ground out near Dagenham. He cut her throat, but still the scene was left as clean as a whistle. Nothing but a plain footprint.
“So we wait. If we get alien samples from the scene, we’ll move and arrest Hellier, but we wait until then.” Sean saw Vicky moving in her chair. He knew what she was thinking. He held a hand up. “I know,” he said. “But trust me. Hellier won’t be contaminated with anything from the scene. Any clothing he used will be destroyed by now.”
“You’re absolutely certain of that?”
“No,” he replied. “Not absolutely, but certain enough. I need something irrefutable. Whether it’s from one of the scenes or whether it’s something Hellier leads us to, I don’t care. But I’m not going to have him dance circles around me in an interview again. I need something damning.”
“It’s your call, Sean, but don’t forget the Stephen Lawrence inquiry. Those guys were slaughtered for not making early arrests and seizing clothing for forensics. If you go down, I go down with you.”
“No you won’t,” Sean assured her. “Make an official note of your objections. I’ll do the same, and then you’re covered.”
“Hold on,” Vicky said. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know it isn’t,” Sean replied. “But the branch I’m on is too thin for two people. You register those objections. They’ll be entered into my decision log.”
Vicky didn’t argue further.
“I’d like to get a briefing out to the media today.” Sean changed the subject. “You do it, Vicky. Keep my name out of it and don’t mention the link to other murders. Make it an appeal for public assistance. I want to see it in the Evening Standard tonight.”
“Not a problem,” said Vicky. “Their crime editor owes me a couple of favors.”
A knock at the door ended the conversation. Sean turned to see a detective he didn’t recognize. “Sister’s here, guv’nor” was all he said.
Sean’s hand hesitated as it rested on the handle of the witness room. Linda Kotler’s sister waited inside. Sally was with him, but he’d decided to do the talking this time.
Telling someone a loved one had died was one thing. As devastating as that news could be, it was nothing compared to telling them someone they loved had been murdered. That news would shatter lives. The living would be forever haunted, imagining the last moments of those now dead. The worst was telling parents a child had been murdered-few marriages survived that burden. The parents see their dead child every time they look at each other. Eventually they can take no more reminding, no more torture, and push each other away.
Sean gently nudged the door open. He wanted her to see him entering. Debbie Stryer looked up. She was younger than he’d expected, healthy, and slightly tanned. Her country complexion made Sean conscious of his own ghostly city skin. She’d been crying. Her eyes were pink and rimmed bright red. She wasn’t crying now. It was a long trip from Devon. Had she run out of tears?
She began to stand before Sean or Sally could stop her. Her sore eyes darted between them. Sean had seen that look on the faces of other victims’ loved ones. Fear, disbelief; desperate for information.
She spoke first. “Hello. I’m Debbie Stryer. Linda’s sister. Stryer’s my married name.”
Sean nodded that he understood. Sally held out a hand. When Debbie Stryer
took it, Sally gently pulled her hand forward and held it with both of hers.
“I’m Sally Jones. I’m a detective sergeant. I’ll be helping to catch whoever did this to your sister. I’m so sorry for your loss. Everybody tells us Linda was such a good person.” Sally waited for a reaction. The tears began to fall in heavy drops from Debbie’s eyes. Real tears, like those of a child in pain. “You need to know we’ll catch the person who did this to Linda,” Sally promised her.
Sean looked on in admiration. His plan to take the lead just hadn’t happened. If he tried to emulate Sally now, he would sound clumsy. He would introduce himself and help explain any procedural matters Debbie might wish to know, but little more.
He waited for Debbie Stryer to take her hand away from Sally. It was a long wait. She was struggling to speak clearly through her grief.
“Thank you,” she told Sally. “Thank you.” She turned to Sean. The awfulness of the day was beginning to break her. She seemed to be visibly shrinking.
He held out his hand. She accepted it. “I’m Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan,” he said. “I’ll be in charge of this investigation.” He wanted to say more, but couldn’t find the right words.
Debbie almost immediately stopped crying. She looked at him strangely. This was not what he had expected. He’d only introduced himself. Just said his name. He couldn’t have said the wrong thing already.
“She told me about you,” Debbie said. She couldn’t help herself from checking Sean’s left hand. She saw his wedding ring and almost smiled. “She didn’t tell me you were married. That’s typical of Linda.”
Sean and Sally simultaneously turned to each other, confusion and surprise etched on their faces.
CHAPTER 21
Sean had briefed DI Townsend on the meeting with Debbie Stryer. She had listened almost without speaking. The only thing she said was that there must have been some mistake. Sean knew better. He was being played. Hellier was laughing at him.
But Hellier was taking an unnecessary risk in doing so. Showing off came with a price. Debbie Stryer was able to tell them he had approached her sister close to her home, sometime between eight and nine, maybe a little earlier. Christ, he’d even had a conversation with her in the middle of the street. He was beginning to think he was uncatchable. His sociopathic arrogance was matched only by his violence.
