Cold Killing: A Novel (40 page)
“No, you don’t” was Sean’s reply.
“And what do we do about Gibran?”
“Run it past the CPS. Tell them we think we’ve got enough to charge him with two counts. The attempted murder of Sally and the murder of PC O’Connor.” Sean leaned back in his chair. “At least we’ve got a decent chance of getting a conviction there. While he’s banged up on remand, we’ll keep digging on the other murders. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“And if we don’t?” Donnelly asked.
“Pray we get a friendly judge with the brains to read between the lines. If we do, then Gibran will spend the rest of his natural behind bars.
“Changing subjects, is PC O’Connor’s family being looked after?”
“As best we can,” Donnelly said. “Family liaison’s with them already, for what it’s worth.”
“Any kids?
“Three.”
“Christ’s sake.” Sean couldn’t help but imagine his own family sitting, holding each other, crying in disbelief as they were told he’d never walk through the front door again. He felt sad to the pit of his stomach. “Having a dead hero for a father isn’t going to be much use to them, is it?”
Donnelly shrugged an answer.
“Last but not least,” said Donnelly, “what do we do about Hellier? Or rather, Korsakov?”
“Leave him to DI Reger at Complaints. He can have Hellier and Jarratt as a package, assuming he can find him. And good luck to him there.”
“That’s the thing I don’t get about Hellier,” said Donnelly. “He had the money and the means to disappear whenever he wanted. Why didn’t he run when we first came sniffing around him? Why didn’t he just fuck off to the tropics then? Come to think of it, why was he working for Butler and bloody Mason in the first place? He didn’t need the money, he already had a small fortune stashed where the sun don’t shine. He could have put his feet up on a beach someplace where the sex is cheap and the booze is cold, and stayed there happily for all eternity. Why fuck around in London, pretending to be a financier? He may have been a fraud, but he was still working for a living. It doesn’t make sense.”
But it did to Sean. The more he knew about Hellier, the more he understood him.
“It wasn’t about the money with Hellier. For him it’s the game, always the game: proving he’s smarter than everyone else.”
“Proving it to who?” Donnelly asked.
“To himself,” Sean answered. “Always to himself. Proving to himself that everything they said about him was wrong.”
“ ‘They’?” Donnelly asked. “Who are they?”
Sean had said enough. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not important.”
“Whatever,” Donnelly said, dismissing it. “Anyway, speaking of Hellier, Korsakov, whoever the bloody hell he really is, how do you suppose he got to the hospital so soon after we did?”
“Nothing surprises me when it comes to Hellier. Maybe we should check to see if any of our fast-response cars are missing.” Sean managed a slight grin.
“Indeed,” Donnelly replied and stood to leave, but stopped in the doorway. “What was all that about, by the way?” he asked. “In the interview, when Gibran started saying all that shit about your childhood and how you and Hellier were the same?”
“It was nothing,” Sean told him, his voice a little too loud. “It meant nothing. Just rantings. Gibran’s last chance to try and do some harm.”
“Aye,” Donnelly responded. “That’s what I thought.” As he turned to leave Sean’s office, he almost walked into Featherstone. “Guv’nor,” he acknowledged.
Featherstone nodded his appreciation and watched Donnelly leave before turning to Sean. Without speaking, he closed the door and took a seat. Sean had no idea whether he was about to be praised or pilloried.
Finally Featherstone spoke. “Ordinarily, I’d say congratulations—but I’m betting that would feel rather hollow right now.”
“It would,” Sean agreed.
“No one could have done a better job,” Featherstone reassured him. “You displayed some, shall we say, unusual insights. Had you not, Gibran would still be out there. I think you’ve saved some lives today, Sean.” He didn’t answer. “Anyway,” Featherstone continued, “the real hard work starts now, yes? So I’ll leave you to get on with it, but don’t kill yourself. This would be a good point to practice the art of delegation. Your team’s capable. You need to get that hand seen to and to get some rest. Spend a little time at home. You’ll feel better for it.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Sean promised.
Featherstone rose to leave, then sank back into his uncomfortable chair. “One more thing you should know.” His words made Sean lean away from him. “Your . . . shall we say, special talents have been noticed. Certain people have begun to take an interest in you.” Featherstone wasn’t smiling.
“Such as who?” Sean asked.
“People within the service, mainly. Our seniors, sitting in their ivory towers at the Yard.”
“Mainly?” Sean asked.
“Sorry?” Featherstone replied.
“You said people
mainly
in the service. Who outside would be taking an interest?”
“Nobody who wants to do you any harm,” Featherstone answered. “We all work together these days. Partnership approach, remember? My advice—if you want it—is to play the game when you have to and don’t be surprised if a few high-profile,
interesting
cases start finding their way to your door. Well, I’ll let you get on, but don’t forget what I said about getting some rest.”
Sean watched silently as Featherstone rose and left, his eyes following him until he could see him no more.
He knew what Featherstone was telling him—he was about to become a tool, a commodity not to be wasted on tick-the-box murder investigations, where husband kills wife, drug dealer kills drug dealer. They would use him. A freak to catch freaks.
S
trong turbulence shook the twin-engine jet and woke Hellier from a light sleep. He could hear the concerned voices of his fellow passengers, unaccustomed to the shaking passenger planes received as they approached Queenstown Airport on New Zealand’s South Island. He peered out of the window and saw the Remarkables mountain range stretching as far as he could see to the south. From peak to base the mountains were reflected in the still, clear waters of Lake Wakatipu. He had left behind a Northern Hemisphere summer and arrived in the middle of the Southern Hemisphere winter. The mountains were covered in snow, which was what most of his fellow passengers had come for. But not Hellier. The plane’s PA system advised the passengers to prepare for landing in five minutes. Reluctantly he fastened his seat belt and stared out of the window, a slight smile on his face, oblivious to the stomach-churning buffeting as the winter winds gripped the jet. Finally they bumped to ground, the engines roaring in reverse to halt the plane on the short, perilous runway. His fellow passengers breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Thirty-six hours ago Hellier had been on the other side of the world. Soon he would be safe in his long-ago-established retreat. He had flown from London to Singapore using a British passport, but instead of catching a connecting transfer flight to his destination, he had taken his carry-on suitcase containing a change of clothing and toiletries, and passed through Customs and Immigration. Outside the airport he had hailed a cab that took him through the shining skyscraper metropolis Singapore had become, a soulless, generic, New Age Eastern business center.
Finally he arrived in Old Chinatown, with its mix of Chinese, Malay, and Indian architecture. Bustling brown-skinned people filled the streets, trading, talking, eating, living. These streets suited him far better than the glass valleys that filled the rest of the island. He’d made his way to a nondescript ornament and souvenir shop in Temple Street. The owner recognized him immediately and fetched a safety-deposit box that he handed to Hellier. He’d placed his British passport in the box and taken out an Australian one in the name of Scott Thurston. Then he made his way back to the airport. Two hours later he was flying Air New Zealand business class to Auckland.
After an eleven-hour flight he touched down at Auckland Airport feeling refreshed and alive, having slept most of the way. Once again, rather than take a direct transfer flight, he’d cleared Immigration and exited the airport. A cab driven by an overtalkative Samoan took him to Mount Eden, an area popular with young, successful Aucklanders. The owner of the antiques shop almost froze with fear when he saw Hellier enter. He needn’t have been afraid; within minutes, Hellier was heading back to the airport to catch his flight to Queenstown. This time he traveled under a New Zealand passport bearing his photograph and the name Phillip Johnston.
Now he walked through the domestic arrivals exit at Queenstown Airport without attracting a second glance from the security services casually floating around the terminal. People came here for a good time; summer or winter, it didn’t matter. Nobody expected trouble. Nobody suspected who or what he was.
A short cab ride took him to the offices of a property letting and management agency in the center of town. Hellier entered Otago Properties Ltd. and scanned the premises for familiar faces. The middle-aged man recognized him at the same time that Hellier spotted him. Both men smiled, the manager getting to his feet and striding across the office, hand outstretched in friendship. Hellier accepted it.
“Bloody hell, Phillip Johnston, where the hell have you been?” the manager said in his nasal South Island accent. “I thought you must be dead!”
“Not yet,” Hellier answered. “Not yet.”
Twenty minutes later, he used the key he’d collected from Otago Properties to open the heavy wooden door of the house built into the side of a mountain. He stepped inside and spent several minutes surveying his surroundings, mentally noting every item he saw. After a while he was satisfied that everything was as it should be. He dropped his suitcase and closed the front door, walking straight through the house to the living room, with its panoramic view from the huge sliding glass doors. A long wooden coffee table, surrounded by antique leather armchairs, was positioned in front of the windows. A brand-new laptop computer sat in the middle of the table, just as Hellier had arranged, its standby light blinking green, drawing him toward it.
He stood over the computer and opened its lid, the screen immediately filling with the site he’d programmed it to display from the other side of the world: bank account details for Butler and Mason International Finance. The message on the screen questioned him:
Are you sure you want to continue with fund transfers?
He paused for a while, not wanting to rush this sweet moment. After a minute or so he finally pressed the enter button and watched, only his eyes showing any emotion as they excitedly darted around the screen following the rows and columns of numbers as they gradually fell away to zero. Tens of millions of pounds had flowed out of Butler and Mason’s primary bank account into accounts all around the world set up by Hellier. Not a penny of it entered his own accounts; he already had more money than he could spend. It flowed into the accounts of people he might need in the future: people of influence, people who could get him things that would otherwise be difficult to obtain. And millions more poured into the bank accounts of charities he cared nothing about, under the guise of anonymous benefactors. And it was all absolutely untraceable. When the transactions were complete, he turned the computer off and unplugged it. He would throw it in the lake after nightfall. His face showed no flicker of emotion, no happiness. Only a satisfied sigh betrayed his pleasure.
He walked to the giant windows and undid the latches. Throwing the doors open, he stepped out onto a balcony the size of a tennis court. The lake and the mountains stretched out before him as far as he could see. Seemingly miles below, the TSS
Earnslaw,
a hundred-year-old steamship, left a shallow wake that spread from shore to shore. He walked to the edge of the balcony and held the rail. Closing his eyes, he allowed the freezing mountain air to hammer against his body, sweeping away the stale air of long-haul travel.
Standing there on the balcony of his long-standing hideaway, his life in London as James Hellier fast-forwarded through his mind, from its very beginning to its very end. The time had come to kill James Hellier, to bury him where he would never be found, just as he had done to Stefan Korsakov. James Hellier was gone forever, and all that went with him. All, that was, but for two names: Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan and Sebastian Gibran. Those two he would never forget.
Hellier opened his eyes, stretched his arms into a crucifix position, and began to laugh.
Two weeks later
S
ean sat alone in his office. He waded through a mountain of requests from the Crown Prosecution Service, most totally unreasonable, nothing more than an evidential wish list. It was clear they weren’t entirely happy with the evidence against Sebastian Gibran. Neither was he.
He thought of Sally. He missed having her around the place. Everyone did. He wondered if he would ever see her barreling around the office again, filling it with life. She remained in Intensive Care, but she had phases of consciousness and was expected to live. During one of those phases she had confirmed that Gibran was her attacker.
A knock at his open door made Sean look up. A uniformed constable he didn’t recognize stood waiting to be acknowledged.
“Yes?”
The constable entered and held a large brown envelope out for Sean to take.
“This arrived in the front office,” he said. “It’s addressed to you.”
Sean half stood and leaned over his desk. More CPS requests, no doubt. Thanking the constable, he took the envelope.
The exotic stamps told Sean this envelope didn’t contain memos from the CPS, or anything of that nature. It had been sent from Singapore. Placing the envelope carefully on his desk, he patted it gingerly, feeling for small hard objects: the telltale signs of a letter bomb. It was something he had never done before Korsakov and Gibran came into his life.
There were no suspicious lumps. All the same, Sean opened it carefully, cutting a fine edge away from the side of the envelope with a pair of scissors. He avoided the folded areas where he was meant to tear it open. Just in case.
He remembered himself almost too late. Dropping the envelope, he pulled open his bottom drawer and reached for the box of latex gloves kept there. He pulled a pair on, his hands feeling instantly hot and sweaty. Then he picked the envelope up and spilled the contents onto his desk.
The first items to emerge were photographs. Excellent quality. Color. They appeared to have been taken by a professional. He recognized both of the two men in the shots: Paul Jarratt and Stefan Korsakov. The pictures formed a sequence covering about thirty seconds. Korsakov handing Jarratt a plain brown envelope. Jarratt opening it. Half-pulling fifty-pound notes from inside. Pushing them back in. A handshake. Jarratt walking away. DI Reger would be very interested in the pictures.
As he shuffled through the photographs, a folded piece of paper fell out. A letter. He opened it. It had been folded only once. He saw the blue handwriting, neat, but not ornate. Clear, but not printed. There was no sender’s name or address. It could only have been from one person. He began to read.
Thought these might come in useful. I used them to ensure his loyalty for a time, but I have no use for him now. He failed me. He shouldn’t have done that. I only regret I won’t be able to give evidence at his trial.
Sorry about skipping off. I’m sure you understand. I had no intention of becoming a corpse for the media vultures to pick over. Your fault entirely. I haven’t forgotten.
Imagine Gibran thinking he could outwit me. I look forward to seeing him again. I’ll have a nice little surprise waiting for that jumped-up fucker.
How are my wife and children? Crying for my return, no doubt. They don’t know what they pray for. If they did, they wouldn’t.
I’m sure we’ll meet again. I feel I still owe you something.
Sean held the letter for a long time. He had hoped he’d heard the last of Stefan Korsakov, but in his heart he knew he hadn’t. Korsakov liked games too much.
His desk phone rang, making him jump. He tossed the letter aside and answered. It was Kate.
“How are you doing today?” she asked. She had called him a lot more often these last two weeks. He used to seem so invulnerable. Now there was something tenuous about him. As if he might easily be snatched away.
“I’m doing all right,” he said, before she could continue. “Listen, I was thinking. Maybe we should get out of London.”
“And move where?” Kate asked.
“Well,” Sean answered, “I got an e-mail the other day. The police in New Zealand are looking to recruit British cops. I can even do a direct transfer as a DI. We’d get full residency. The kids would love it.”
“And me?” Kate asked.
“Come on, Kate,” he reassured her. “You’re a doctor. There isn’t a country in the world that doesn’t want more doctors.”
“What brought this on?” Kate asked cheerfully.
Sean looked at the letter on his desk. “Nothing,” he lied, remembering how close he’d been to falling off the edge—remembering being alone in the toilet, staring into the mirror and seeing the swirling darkness of his nature. “I guess I’m just sick of the traffic.”
F
ree, I was a thing of nightmares. Now, in my cage, I have become the object of morbid fascination. You lock me away to lock your fears away. You view me from a safe distance. The newspapers and television your window into my cage. The gaps between the bars through which you peer.
And what is it that scares you most? Is it that there’s a little bit of me in all of you? That little bit of madness waiting to be let loose? When that person standing too close on the underground stamps on your foot, they apologize and you tell them it’s all right, it doesn’t matter, but really you want to stamp on their head until blood and brains cover your feet. Instead you swallow the violence down. Keep the madness deep inside.
As for me, I’m not finished yet. The British legal system will give me a chance. Anything is possible. The judge will call my arrest and prosecution a travesty. The police will be lambasted. The media will rally to my cause. I’ll walk free from the court. Will there be cheering crowds? So many other killers have been greeted by cheering crowds, why not me? I’ll raise my arms in victory as I walk toward the waiting photographers. I’ll call to them, “Innocent. Proven innocent.”
