Cold Killing dsc-1

by Luke Delaney

  “Standard procedure,” Sean answered without commitment.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Hellier argued. “I really don’t think so. You have her guarded because you know I’m not the one. Her would-be destroyer is still out there, and you know it, don’t you? Don’t you, Inspector?”

  “I haven’t got time for this.” Sean tried to push the fog of doubt from his mind.

  “I know who it is, Inspector. I know who killed these people and tried to kill DS Jones. The realization washed over me like a revelation. A moment of absolute clarity. It could only be him. Only he could know so much about me. Only he could watch me so closely.”

  “Who?” Sean asked, voice rising. “Let’s play your little game. Tell me who.”

  “You already know.” Hellier’s voice rose to match Sean’s.

  “Tell me, dammit,” Sean demanded. “You need to tell me and you need to do it now, or this interview will be over and you’ll end up rotting in Broadmoor for someone else’s crimes.”

  “You already know,” Hellier repeated. “If I know, you know. Use your imagination. Think as he thinks. Think as we think.”

  Sean leaned forward to answer, but suddenly stopped, scene after scene suddenly playing in his mind, no longer under his control: the first time he entered Daniel Graydon’s flat, the body on the floor in a pool of blood; the autopsy; walking into Hellier’s office, the stench of his malevolence; Sebastian Gibran watching them. The photographs of Heather Freeman, her throat cut, green staring lifeless eyes; Hellier’s snarling face when he arrested him at his office; Sebastian Gibran watching. Linda Kotler’s twisted and tortured body; Hellier admitting he practiced sadomasochistic sex; Sebastian Gibran watching. Sebastian Gibran contacting Sally, meeting her, watching her. Sally attacked in her own home. The phone calls Hellier claimed to have received, the instructions he was given that denied him alibis; Sebastian Gibran watching, watching them all, playing them all-him against Hellier and Hellier against him, led by the nose like two lambs to the slaughter. But Hellier had worked it out, his hunger to survive driving him to the answer. And now the revelation washed over Sean too-Sebastian Gibran. Sebastian Gibran. Sebastian Gibran.

  His eyes fell away to the ground as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place in his damaged mind. “Jesus Christ,” he finally declared as the face formed behind his eyes. “I need to get to the hospital. I need to go now.”

  Sean jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over, the sound of Hellier’s growing laughter tearing at his ears.

  “Run to her, Inspector,” Hellier tormented. “Run to her before he beats you to the prize.”

  Sean ran from the interview room, almost knocking Donnelly over as he headed for the exit to the holding cell and the car park.

  “Problem?” Donnelly asked, bewildered.

  “I’ve got to get to the hospital. I’ve got to get to Sally,” Sean said, continuing to move.

  “Why?” Donnelly tried to keep pace. “And what about Hellier?”

  “Let him go.”

  “After what he tried to do to you?”

  Sean glanced down at his swollen hand; the image of Hellier’s bloodied face flashed in his mind. “I’d say we’re even. Just get rid of him and tell him I never want to see him again.” On reaching the exit, he turned to face Donnelly. “And then get to the hospital as fast as you can.” He backed out of the exit and was gone.

  Only the closing door heard Donnelly’s reply: “Will somebody please tell me what the fuck is going on?”

  CHAPTER 26

  Saturday afternoon

  I sit on a bench in a pretty little garden in the hospital grounds. It’s where people recovering from amputations caused by cancer come to smoke. No one pays me much attention, dressed as I am in a dark blue male nurse’s uniform. A wig, mustache, and spectacles conceal my true features, and the handles of the coiled cheese-wire dig uncomfortably into my hip as they hide in my pocket. A crude weapon, but quiet and effective in the right hands.

  I begin to walk to Charing Cross Hospital’s main entrance, feeling the syringe taped to my chest pulling my shaved skin as I stride forward. The sheathed knife tucked into the small of my back feels uncomfortable, but reassuringly so.

  I like to plan meticulously, but there’s been no time for that. I must be pragmatic, play things by ear. It will be dangerous for me, and even more so for anyone who gets in my way, but there is no choice, not now. If the pig bitch survives, she will tell the world I was the one who visited her last night. My beautiful charade would be over. I would have to run. . But if I am able to correct my mistake, I will remain anonymous.

  It was easy enough to find out where she had been taken. Everybody in this area either gets taken to the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital or, as she had, to Charing Cross. A few phone calls were all it took to find out which, and that she was in the ICU. They were also kind enough to tell me it was expected that she would recover from her injuries. People really ought to be more careful with information they give out. You never know who you’re talking to.

  I make my way confidently through the never-ending, winding corridors to the laundry room. Medical staff and porters wander in and out of here endlessly, nobody paying anybody else much attention. These giant hospitals are about as personal as a rush-hour train station. Their security is a joke.

  I help myself to several clean and neatly folded sheets, all wrapped in transparent plastic wrap, and make my way to the lift that will carry me straight to the Intensive Care Unit and her. As the lift rises my heart begins to race. The power surges through my veins. I feel giddy with excitement. It makes me want to lash out at the other people in the lift, pull the knife from the small of my back and cut them all to pieces, but I won’t. I keep control. I have other business to take care of today.

  As the lift doors slide open I see the Intensive Care Unit stretch out before me. It’s different from the rest of the hospital: darker, warmer, and quieter. It feels safe. I step into its peace and allow the lift to fall away to rejoin the chaos. Immediately, I know which room she must be in, dutifully advertised by the armed police officer standing outside. I have anticipated it. Good. I’ll make excellent use of his uniform. Once I have that, I’ll be spending a few farewell moments with the little bitch. Then I’ll use the syringe I’ve brought to inject a bubble of air into her already fragile body and send her quietly to meet her maker. After all, who’s going to question a cop with a gun?

  A nurse steps from a room into the corridor and looks me up and down dismissively, my uniform marking its wearer as a lower creature in the hospital hierarchy. I look down at the sheets I carry.

  “Laundry said you were running low,” I say in the most effeminate voice I can muster.

  “News to me” is all the self-important slut can say for herself. “Laundry cupboard’s around the corner, outside the toilet.”

  No please, no thank you. How I would like to teach her some manners. Another time maybe.

  I follow her directions, acknowledging the armed pig with a nod of the head as I pass. I place the laundry in the cupboard then walk to the communal toilet and open the door. But I do not enter. Instead I contort my face to falsify an expression of concern and walk quickly and quietly toward the pig. I speak with the voice of a homosexual, keeping it low so the nurses can’t hear.

  “Excuse me. I think there’s something in the toilet you should see.”

  He casts an eye over me, barely able to disguise the disgust on his face, as if he wants to swat me away like an annoying fly. Eventually he walks toward the toilet fearlessly, as all pigs with guns would, safe in the false knowledge they are untouchable. I hold the door open for him as he enters.

  “What’s the problem?” he asks. It’s the last thing he’ll ever say. I pop the cheese wire around his throat and pull it nice and tight. He manages to get several fingers under the wire, a futile attempt to save himself. If need be I’ll cut through his fingers. I drag him silently into the middle of the room, where he t
ries to reach for anything that will make a noise, anything that will raise the alarm. He realizes he can’t. He gasps for air, his rubber-soled shoes kicking quietly on the hard floor tiles. Eventually he falls still. There’s blood on his shirt and body armor, but nothing I can’t conceal. Should I kill the nurses? No. It would take too long. If they notice the pig’s change in appearance, they’ll just assume a change of guard.

  Now it’s time to right a wrong.

  CHAPTER 27

  Sean’s siren screamed at the ever-present choking traffic in the streets of Hammersmith as he drew closer and closer to Charing Cross Hospital and Sally. The blue light magnetically attached to the roof of his unmarked car gave other drivers little and often too late warning of his scarcely controlled approach. If he crashed now, he had no backup, no one to continue the race toward Sally. Even in his fear and panic he knew he should have contacted the local police and had them cover the hospital, but how long would it take to explain his fears? How long would it take to get authority to deploy more armed guards? And what if he was wrong? What if this was Hellier’s last hurrah, to make him look a fool? To discredit him as a detective? No, he had to do this himself. Donnelly would organize backup, do the sensible thing, but Sean had to come alone. Right or wrong, he had to come alone. Somehow he knew everything would end soon. Everything.

  As he swung into the hospital parking lot he killed the siren and lights, suddenly feeling the need for stealth. Ignoring the signs for the main entrance, he made straight for the Accident and Emergency Department. He parked the car in an ambulance bay and abandoned it, keys in the ignition and door open.

  Sean ran as quickly as he dared through the swing doors. He didn’t know this hospital as well as he did the ones in southeast London and the East End, but he remembered where he’d seen the lifts last night when Sally was first brought here.

  He jabbed the arrow button to summon the lift and waited, beyond impatient, for the metal boxed carriage to arrive, while studying the hospital floor guide for Intensive Care. He found it just as the lift arrived. Without waiting for the doors to open fully, he leaped in and punched the floor he needed with the side of his fist. Thank God there was no one else in the lift, no one to slow his ascent to Sally. Two floors short of his destination the lift suddenly stopped and doors slid open painfully slowly. A gaggle of chatting nurses stepped toward the entrance. Sean flashed the identification he already held in his hand.

  “Sorry,” he almost shouted. “Police business. Use another lift.” He jabbed the lift’s button and the doors closed on a mix of protests and disbelieving giggles.

  Finally the lift drew to a smooth halt at the ICU floor. The doors silently opened, the warmth and silence of the unit wrapping around Sean, mechanical whirs and beeps that appeared so reassuring.

  As Sean stepped from the lift he saw the armed uniformed officer standing outside what he assumed would be Sally’s room. The officer had his back to the wall; Sean presumed this was so he could see in both directions along the corridor. His eyes were immediately drawn to the automatic pistol on the officer’s thigh, as any policeman’s eyes would have been. The officer’s flat hat was pulled low over his forehead, military style, almost totally hiding his upper facial features. Sean guessed he would have been an ex-soldier, a guess made all the more likely to be true by the macho mustache the officer proudly wore. Sean’s eyes darted around the unit, checking for other signs of life. Two ICU nurses busied themselves quietly with another ravaged soul in a room two doors away from Sally’s.

  Sean held his identification aloft. “DI Corrigan. I need to see DS Jones.” The uniform nodded his permission as Sean entered through the already open door. He walked slowly toward Sally, already fearing the worst, his heart pounding out of control, making it difficult to breathe; his stomach felt painful and knotted. But as he drew closer he became aware of the comforting, rhythmic sounds emanating from the machines that surrounded Sally. Heart-rate monitors, pulse monitors, blood-pressure monitors all reassuring him that she was alive. Even the ugly, impossibly big tube that snaked into Sally’s throat, feeding her oxygen, somehow made Sean feel at ease. He finally inhaled a long breath and blew it out through pursed lips.

  He placed a hand on Sally’s forehead and gently stroked her hair back. He was struggling for something to say when he suddenly felt a presence behind him, some change in the atmosphere of the room. He spun on his heels, heart rate soaring, adrenaline already beginning to prepare his body for combat.

  “Bloody hell,” Sean said as he saw Donnelly step into the room. “You got here fast.”

  “Aye. I hitched a ride with the uniform lads in a response car, blues-and-twos all the way. No expense spared.” Donnelly’s tone changed. “Is she okay?”

  “I think so,” Sean replied.

  “Care to tell me what’s going on? Why we’re here? Why we let Hellier walk away a free man again?”

  Sean opened his mouth to explain, but no explanation came forth, only a question. “Where’s the guard? The armed guard? Did you see him?”

  “I didn’t see a guard,” Donnelly answered. “Just you.”

  “No. You got here right after I did.” The fear was back again, the knot in his stomach worse than ever. “There was a guard outside this room.”

  “Okay,” Donnelly said calmly. “I believe you, guv’nor. Christ, he’s probably gone for a piss.”

  “The toilet,” said Sean. “I have to check the toilet.”

  “Why?” Donnelly asked. “What’s the problem?”

  “I know who the killer is,” Sean answered, already racing along the corridor, searching for the toilet, shouting now. “He’s here. I know he’s here.”

  “Hellier’s the killer,” Donnelly argued. “But you let him go.”

  Donnelly’s words would have stung Sean, but he wasn’t listening, he was frantically searching for the toilet and the uniformed officer. At last he found the communal toilet and threw the door open. Three sinks lined one side and three toilet cubicles the other. Only one of the cubicle doors was shut. Sean walked slowly into the room.

  “Hello,” he called to no one. “I’m Detective Inspector Corrigan. I need to know if anyone is in here. . Is anyone in here?” Silence. He moved to the closed cubicle and placed his palm on the door. The small square of green told Sean the door wasn’t locked. Gently he pushed and the door swung open.

  Sean couldn’t help taking two steps backward, repelled by the sight of the nearly naked man slumped on the toilet, eyes bulging grotesquely, his swollen purple tongue protruding from his mouth, rolled to one side. The burgundy color of his face contrasting pitifully against the pale, now waxlike skin of the rest of his body. Sean stared at the scene, his mind processing the information. He saw one of the man’s arms fallen across his lap, while the other was still raised, the fingers desperately grasping at the thin metal wire that was buried in his neck and throat. Drying blood stained the dead man’s hands and chest, blood that had run from the virtually severed fingers.

  Donnelly appeared at Sean’s shoulder, ready to continue the argument until he saw the body.

  “Jesus Christ,” Donnelly said. “What in God’s name is going on?”

  “It’s Gibran,” Sean told him. “Sebastian Gibran killed him and all the others.”

  “But who is this poor bastard?”

  “Our armed police guard. Gibran must have taken his uniform. I walked straight past him, bastard.” Sean turned and began to run toward the lifts, drawing concerned glances from two nurses who’d come out to see what the commotion was about.

  “Where you going?” Donnelly called after him.

  “Stay here and watch over Sally,” Sean commanded, punching the lift button. “I’m going after him. He can’t have taken the lift, else you’d have seen him, so he must have used the stairs. I can make up the ground.”

  “That’s not a good idea, guv,” Donnelly shouted. “If he took the uniform, then he took the gun too. Let an armed unit-”

 
The lift doors closed, cutting off the rest of the sentence. As it began to descend, Sean left Donnelly’s world and entered one that few people would ever truly understand and even fewer could ever survive.

  Sean ran frantically through the crowded lobby of the hospital, straining, searching in all directions for any sign of Gibran, any sign of a uniform striding through the crowds. Increasingly desperate, he approached passersby, thrusting his identification into their faces.

  “A uniformed officer,” he demanded. “Has anyone seen a uniformed officer?”

  Most recoiled from him in fright, but finally he came upon a startled hospital porter who nodded in response to his question.

  “How long ago?” The porter just gawped at him. Sean grabbed the man by the collar. “How long ago?”

  “A couple of minutes,” the man stuttered.

  “Which way?”

  “Out the main exit, toward the car park.”

  Sean released the porter and made for the exit, sprinting now, not caring who saw him, who he knocked out of the way, oblivious to the panic he might be causing. He kept running toward the parking lot, in blind hope more than belief.

  He’d been running hard for over a minute and his lungs and thighs were on fire, but there was still no sign of Gibran. Sean bent over, resting with his hands on his hips, desperately trying to draw new oxygen into his exhausted blood. After a few seconds he straightened and began to scan the vast lot. His mobile vibrated in his pocket. Donnelly’s name came up on the screen. Somehow he managed to speak.

  “I’ve lost him” was all he said.

  “Where the hell are you?” Donnelly asked.

  “In the main car park,” he answered breathlessly. Then, about a hundred meters ahead of him, bobbing his way through the legions of parked cars, he saw a figure clad in a police uniform, the peaked cap prominent. “He’s here, in the car park. I can see him.” He hung up without waiting for Donnelly’s response.