Cold Killing: A Novel (20 page)

“Aye, son,” Donnelly replied. “But nothing we can’t handle.”

H
ellier sat in the deep leather chair. It creaked satisfyingly. He’d completed the transfers. It had taken him less than three hours to move over two million pounds out of his UK and American accounts. He’d left a nominal few thousand in each, to keep them fluid.

He buried the account details in the concealed web page and exited the Internet. He was happy with his night’s work. Extremely happy. He couldn’t help laughing. God, if they could see him, sitting here in the dark laughing to himself, they really would think him mad. He was anything but.

It was time to get home. He cleaned up the desk and took one last look around the room to make sure nothing had been overlooked, then returned to his own office. Leaving the lights on, he went to the window and peeked out through the corner of the venetian blinds. They made a plastic tinkling sound.

He had an excellent view of the road below. It was always busy, no matter what time of day or night. He could still feel the police close by. It was of no matter tonight; there were others of more concern to him than the police. The press. The vile media. They had the power to ruin him with mere rumor. They wouldn’t be interested in proof. They wanted a story to titillate the masses. Something for people to drool over at breakfast. They wanted him. He couldn’t afford to let them take a single photograph. He couldn’t afford to be recognized.

S
ally parked close to the entrance of the building where she lived in Fulham, West London. She let herself in and moved quickly through the communal areas. Dim hallway lights helped her. She tried to keep the noise down. She was a good neighbor. She entered her flat and locked the door.

Following her usual routine, she turned on the lamp in the far corner first. She preferred its gentle light to the overheads. Next she flicked the TV on, for company, then moved into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and scanned the contents before closing it again. Maybe she’d have more luck in the freezer. She did. A frosty bottle of raspberry vodka rested on its side. Grabbing it by the neck, she looked around for a clean glass. There was one by the sink. She poured a good measure of the thick vodka and threw the bottle back into the freezer.

Sally sat at her kitchen table and rocked back on her chair, kicking her shoes off, the drink in front of her. She pulled the cigarettes from her handbag and lit one. It must have been the thirtieth of the day. She thought about stubbing it out, but hey, cigarettes cost a fortune these days. Covering a mortgage on a flat in this part of London didn’t leave much in the kitty for luxuries.

Staring at the walls suddenly brought on pangs of loneliness. Being thirty-something and single hadn’t been part of her life plan. The partner thing had just never happened. There had been lovers, two of whom had been close to measuring up to her standards, only to fall away as the stakes were increased.

The fact of the matter was, most men were simply intimidated by her. Being a female police officer was bad enough, but a detective sergeant—that scared the crap out of them. The only ones who weren’t scared off were policemen, but the idea of never being able to escape the job was unbearable. No, they had to be completely unconnected with the police or it would be better to stay single. Besides, these last couple of years hadn’t left a lot of time for relationships.

Naturally, her parents were disappointed. They saw their chances of becoming grandparents slipping away. Didn’t they understand modern women were choosing to have a career first and then children later in life? There was still hope on that front. After all, she didn’t need a permanent partner to have children. Catching herself fantasizing about potential sperm donors, she shook the faces from her thoughts.

“Fuck it,” she declared out loud. “I’m getting a cat.”

H
ellier could see two of them at the front of the building. One had a camera, the other didn’t. One photographer and one journalist, but there would be more. The victim was of no interest to the media, no story there. Rent boy dies, who gives a fuck?
He
was the story. Wealthy, respected businessman investigated for murder. A sordid murder at that. This story would grow and grow. It was only a matter of time before the national media started to run with it. Once his face hit the papers and TV sets, life would be intolerable. He needed his anonymity. Daniel Graydon had been a mistake, but it was a mistake he would survive.

There would be more journalists covering the rear exit to the building, through the basement car park. There was only one way out. He’d found it within days of starting work at Butler and Mason. He always liked to know alternative ways of leaving a building. Just in case.

He took his house keys and wallet from his briefcase, then slid them under his desk. They would be too cumbersome for what he had in mind. Making his way to the emergency stairwell, he climbed to the top floor. He looked up at the hatch that led to the roof. It was secured with a bolt.

The next bit was the most difficult. He had to climb on the stair rail and keep his balance until he could stretch his hands to the ceiling and hold himself in place. He managed that much. His feet twisted a little on the thin metal banister as he fought to keep his balance. He reached out to the bolt with his right arm. His left hand was still pressed to the ceiling.

The bolt came out after a series of solid jerks. Each jerk almost threw off Hellier’s balance. If he lost it now, he would either fall three feet forward to safety, or tumble backward down the stairwell, six flights.

He pushed on the roof exit cover. It gave way easily. He used his fingers to caterpillar the wooden cover away from the exit. Every sinew of his body was already stretched to the breaking point.

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

L
ast 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

B
y 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?”

“Publicity,” 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.

H
ellier 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.”

S
ally 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.