Cold Killing: A Novel (35 page)

He felt Hellier’s bristles rub against his ear. He could smell his sweet breath. It made him want to vomit, to pull away. Hellier pressed the blade harder into his throat.

“Ah, ah, Inspector.” He recognized Hellier’s voice.

Someone flicked the light on in the room. It was Donnelly, who froze when he saw them. Hellier smiled. Donnelly regathered himself. “Put the knife down, man.”

It sounded like a request, not a demand. Hellier gave a shallow laugh. He turned his face to Sean, but kept his eyes on Donnelly. His tongue curled from his mouth. Slowly, deliberately, he licked the side of Sean’s face, his body quivering with the thrill of tasting Sean’s fear. He gripped the earlobe in his teeth and closed his eyes in ecstasy. He released his grip and stopped smiling. He looked deadly serious. He whispered in Sean’s ear.

“Remember who let you live.”

Hellier threw the knife on the floor and stepped away, placing his hands behind his head. Sean spun around and caught him full in the mouth with a left hook. His amateur boxing days made the move effortless.

Hellier fell backward into a dressing cabinet. He fell hard. Framed pictures smashed under his weight. The mirror shattered. He rolled onto the floor, landing on all fours, and looked at Sean, smiling through bloody teeth. Sean stared back, only he didn’t see Hellier’s face, he saw his father’s. His torturer’s.

Sean delivered a powerful kick to the rib cage that lifted Hellier off the floor. He landed on his back, but still he smiled. Sean knelt next to him and began to pile punches into Hellier’s face. He didn’t know how many he landed before Donnelly pulled him off, or that he had been screaming “
Bastard!
” as each punch found its target. Nor had he realized he’d broken a bone in his right hand and that his knuckles had been sliced open on Hellier’s teeth.

It took him a while to come back to the world. When he did, he shrugged himself loose from Donnelly’s hold and stared at the bloody mess that was Hellier’s face. Hellier was lying on his back, only partly conscious, spitting blood from his mouth. His nose was broken.

The two Islington detectives ran into the room. They saw Hellier lying in his own blood. The knife on the floor. Sean breathing like a madman. His hands bloody and swollen. They didn’t ask questions.

CHAPTER 25

S
aturday, 10
A.M.
, and news had spread of the night’s events. The office buzzed. Hellier had come after one of them.

Sean pressed an ice pack wrapped in an old T-shirt to the swelling Hellier’s kick had left on the side of his face. The other hand was badly swollen. His little and ring fingers were taped together, as were his index and middle fingers. He refused to go to a hospital and have it put in a cast. The police surgeon had done her best. He used the broken hand to press the phone to his ear. The hospital updated him on Sally’s condition.

She had survived her operation, the first of several. Still in Intensive Care. She hadn’t regained consciousness. Drugs would ensure she didn’t. For the time being at least.

A familiar silhouette appeared at his door. Featherstone had come to see and be seen. He entered Sean’s office without ceremony.

“You look like shit.” He sounded unconcerned.

“Thanks,” Sean replied.

Featherstone’s expression turned serious. “How is she?”

“Too early to say. She’s in Intensive Care.”

“Well, if there’s anything I can do . . .” He let the offer hang. Sean said nothing. “And you—should you be at work?”

“I’m fine.”

“If you want someone to steer the ship for a couple of hours while you get some rest, let me know.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sean repeated.

“Of course you will.” He paused before continuing. “Do we have enough evidence to charge Hellier?”

“I have a team searching Sally’s flat and another going over Hellier’s.”

“What about his office?” Featherstone asked.

“No need.” Sean was blunt. “Surveillance confirms he didn’t return to his office. We’re concentrating on his house and Sally’s.”

They were interrupted by Donnelly banging on the door. “Lab’s on the phone, guv’nor.” Sean could tell Donnelly was excited, an excitement that leaped across the office and into Sean’s chest. His heart rate accelerated, becoming irregular. “They’ve got a match to the hairs found in Linda Kotler’s flat.” Donnelly paused, enjoying the drama. “They’re Hellier’s.”

Sean slumped back into his chair. Featherstone slapped his thighs and smiled. It was over. Sean had his critical evidence. The few seconds of pulse-racing excitement were replaced by an overwhelming relief. Finally it was over. He’d been proved right. Hellier was finished.

A female detective appeared in the doorway: “Someone on the phone for DS Jones, guv.”

“Transfer them to my phone,” he instructed. She nodded and left. He waited for the ringing and answered. “DI Corrigan speaking. I’m afraid DS Jones isn’t available. Is there something I can help you with?”

“This is the Public Records Office at Richmond calling,” the male voice explained. “DS Jones had me run a couple of inquiries. I have the results for her.”

“I’ll take them,” said Sean. He grabbed a pen. “I’ll see DS Jones gets them.”

“She wanted birth and death certificates for two individuals: a Stefan Korsakov and a James Hellier.” Sean felt his heart miss a beat. “I have a birth certificate for Korsakov, but no death certificate, so if he’s still in the country, he’s alive.”

“And Hellier?” Sean asked.

“Both birth and death certificates for him. Poor little chap never got past his first birthday.”

“Excuse me?”

“He died in childhood.” The possibilities rushed into Sean’s mind.

“What year was Korsakov born?”

“Nineteen sixty-seven,” came the answer.

“When did Hellier die?”

“Interesting,” the clerk said. “Also nineteen sixty-seven.”

It had to be. Somehow Sean knew it. It had to be. “Thank you,” he managed to say. “I’ll have someone collect them.” He hung up and turned to Donnelly. “Remember the suspect Sally was working on?”

“The one from Method Index?” Donnelly asked.

“Yes, Stefan Korsakov. Do you know where she kept the inquiry file?”

“In her desk, I presume.”

Sean moved quickly across the office to Sally’s desk. Donnelly followed, intrigued. Sean tugged at the locked drawers. “Have you got a skeleton key for these damn things?” Most good detective sergeants did, although they would rarely admit it. Donnelly didn’t look too happy about it, but produced the key anyway. Sean hurriedly unlocked the top drawer. A brown file with the name “Korsakov” written across the front lay inside. He flicked it open and began to read.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Donnelly asked.

“Did Sally discuss this inquiry with you?”

“Not really.”

“Anything at all?” Sean persisted.

“Only thing she told me was that someone was lying to her.”

“When did she tell you that?”

“I think it was Thursday.”

Sean continued to search through the file, forward and backward, almost oblivious to Donnelly’s presence. Finally he looked up. “Bastard has been getting help.”

“Sorry?”

“Sally told me his fingerprints had gone missing from the Yard. His photograph from his intelligence file. She told you she was being lied to—but by whom?”

“Guv’nor,” Donnelly kept his voice down, “what are you talking about?”

“Don’t you understand?” Sean asked unfairly. “Hellier is Korsakov, the man Sally identified through Method Index as being a possible suspect for our murder. Stefan Korsakov is Hellier, but everything she needed to make that connection disappeared. In spite of that, she was getting closer, closer to finding out the truth, even if she didn’t know it herself.”

“Wait a minute,” Donnelly pleaded. “Hellier is Stefan Korsakov?”

“I’d bet my fucking life on it,” Sean answered. “When Korsakov got out of prison, he needed to reinvent himself or he was finished in this country. He’d have to take his money and run. That’s not his style. All it took was a new identity and someone in the police to make his past as good as disappear. The new identity is easy enough. He goes to a graveyard and picks someone who was born in the same year he was, but who died in childhood, the younger the better. Less history.”

“And he gets a bent copper to make his photos and fingerprints disappear,” Donnelly finished for him. “That’s why Hellier attacked Sally, because she was getting too close to finding out his secret.”

“Hellier wouldn’t be the only one who would want to stop Sally. Whoever was helping him had as much to lose as Hellier.”

“Our bent police friend,” Donnelly surmised.

“It has to be a possibility,” Sean admitted.

“Then perhaps the attack on Sally isn’t connected to the other attacks?”

“It is,” Sean assured him. “They’re all connected somehow. We just need to complete the circle of events. Once we do that, we’ll know how this all fits in.”

“Where do we start?”

“We find this bent copper.”

“How?”

Sean scanned the file. He found what he was looking for: the name of the original officer in the case. Detective Sergeant Paul Jarratt. “I know that name.”

“Come again?” Donnelly asked.

“Paul Jarratt, the original investigating officer, I know that name.”

“Maybe you used to work with him?”

“No,” Sean muttered. “Something recent. Something I’ve seen.”

S
ean studied the man who opened the door of the neat Surbiton home. He and Donnelly showed their identification and introduced themselves. Jarratt seemed nervous, but composed.

“I believe you know a colleague of mine,” Sean said. “DS Sally Jones?”

“Yes,” Jarratt answered. “She called around here a couple of times, asking about an old case of mine.”

“I know,” Sean told him. “Unfortunately I have some bad news concerning DS Jones.”

“Bad news?”

“I’m afraid she was attacked and seriously injured last night. She’s stable, but critical. I thought as you’d been helping her you should know.”

“Yes,” Jarratt stuttered. “Thank you. Thank you for thinking of me. Can I ask how it happened?”

“You can,” Donnelly said, nodding his head toward the inside.

“Yes, of course,” Jarratt answered. “Please, come in.” He led them to the kitchen and sat. Sean and Donnelly remained standing.

“I don’t know a lot of details,” Sean explained. “We know she was attacked with a knife in her own flat and received two serious injuries. She managed to escape and make it to her neighbor’s. She’s lucky to be alive.”

“My God,” Jarratt said. “Who would attack a copper in her own home?”

“Maybe you can help us with that?” Sean asked. Jarratt’s jaw dropped slightly. Sean noticed it.

“Of course,” Jarratt answered. “I’ll help in any way I can, only I’m not sure how.”

“DS Jones was trying to trace a suspect—Stefan Korsakov, a man you’d had dealings with some years ago.”

“Yes.”

“Only she was having trouble locating his fingerprints.”

“Yes, I remember her mentioning it.”

“Her inquiries led her to discover that you had requested the fingerprints be removed from Fingerprint Branch. Apparently Wandsworth Prison needed them to make copies for their records.”

“Yes, I told DS Jones all this.”

“And you’re positive the prison requested them?” Sean asked.

“Yes. My colleague at the time, Graham Wright, collected the prints for me and returned them. Perhaps he could help you.”

“Do you know a man called James Hellier?” Sean asked without warning.

Jarratt was silent for a while. He appeared to be struggling to recall the name. “No, I don’t think I know anyone by that name.”

“You’re sure?”

“It’s not a name that means anything to me,” Jarratt answered.

Sean pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket. “Will you do me a favor?” he asked. “Take a look at these photographs. Tell me if you recognize the man in them.” Sean emptied the surveillance photographs of Hellier onto the table in front of Jarratt.

Jarratt leaned forward and shuffled the photographs around, apparently uninterested. “No,” he said. “I don’t recognize this man. I’ve already told DS Jones I don’t know this man, when she showed me a photograph of the same man when she first came to see me.”

“Are you sure?” Sean asked. “Are you absolutely sure the man in these photographs isn’t Stefan Korsakov?”

“Stefan Korsakov?” Jarratt asked, disbelief in his voice. “This isn’t Stefan Korsakov.”

“If not Korsakov, then what about James Hellier? Is the man in this photograph James Hellier?” Sean persisted.

“I don’t know anyone called James Hellier, so I wouldn’t know if this was or wasn’t him,” Jarratt answered, the increasing anxiety in his voice palpable.

Sean said nothing, instead tossing a piece of paper in front of Jarratt. “What’s this?” Jarratt asked.

“Take a look,” Sean told him.

Jarratt lifted it from the table and began to read through the list of names and telephone numbers on the printout of the e-mail from SO11. “I don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head.

“What’s the matter?” Sean asked. “Don’t you recognize your own name, your own telephone number?” He leaned over Jarratt and stabbed his finger into the printout. “Right there: Jarratt, Paul. And here: your address and your number.”

“What is this?” Jarratt asked.

“This is a list of telephone numbers taken from a notebook belonging to one James Hellier, who is currently under investigation for murder. What is your telephone number doing in his notebook, Mr. Jarratt?”

“I have no idea,” Jarratt pleaded. “So he has my telephone number, what does that mean? There could be any number of reasons why he has my number.”

Sean fell silent. He sat next to Jarratt. “If it was only the telephone number in his book, I might believe you,” he said. “But you’ve already hung yourself. You see, I found out that DS Jones checked with the prison and they told her they never requested Korsakov’s prints. You lied.” Jarratt didn’t respond. “And then there are these,” Sean continued, tapping the photographs of Hellier. “On our way to see you, we called in on an old colleague of yours, DS Graham Wright, and I showed him these very same photographs. And you know what he told me, without any hesitation whatsoever? He told me that the man in these photographs is Stefan Korsakov. The same Stefan Korsakov who now goes by the name of James Hellier. But you already know that, don’t you, Mr. Jarratt?”

“I . . . I . . .” Jarratt struggled, trapped.

“It’s over,” said Sean. “You were a detective once. You know when the show is over. It’s time to save yourself. Talk to us. Did Hellier attack Sally? You warned him she was digging around his past and he got worried she was getting too close, so he tried to stop her the only way he could—by killing her.”

“No,” Jarratt insisted. “He didn’t attack her.”

“So you admit to knowing him?” Donnelly asked.

“Yes . . . I mean no.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Donnelly demanded.

“All right, for Christ’s sake. Yes, I’ve been in contact with him,” Jarratt admitted. “But I’ve got nothing to do with DS Jones being attacked.”

“But you made Korsakov’s photographs and fingerprints disappear, yes?” Sean asked.

Jarratt’s body slumped. “If I talk, you’ll look after me, agreed? You guarantee me no prison time and I’ll talk.”

“I can’t make that sort of promise, but I’ll do what I can. Now talk.”

“Shortly before Korsakov was due to be released from prison I decided to visit him.”

“Why?” Sean asked.

“Because we’d never recovered the money from his frauds. Millions of pounds outstanding.”

“And you fancied helping yourself to an early retirement present, eh?” Donnelly accused.

“No,” Jarratt claimed. “It wasn’t like that. Or at least, not at first. It’s often worth visiting people shortly ahead of their release to remind them that you’re watching them. Make it clear to them that as soon as they start spending their ill-gotten gains you’ll be there to seize everything they have.” Sean was aware of the practice. “Sometimes you can cut a deal, get them to surrender most of the money, in return for allowing them to keep a proportion as a reward for playing the game. All very unofficial, but everybody wins. We get to show moneys recovered, the victims get some compensation, and the thief gets a little sweetener.

“But that’s not the way Korsakov wanted to play it. He wasn’t about to hand over a penny. However, he could see the point in making sure the police weren’t on his back.”