Cold Killing: A Novel (5 page)

He spoke again. “Sally, did your team finish off the door-to-door?”

“Pretty much, guv’nor. Nothing to add since last time. Nobody can remember much coming and going from his flat, which fits with the lack of other people’s fingerprints inside the scene. He had the occasional guest, but certainly no parties.” Sally shrugged. “Sorry, boss.”

He moved on. If Sally hadn’t turned up any eyewitnesses, there weren’t any. Sean had no doubt about that.

“Dave?” Sean looked at Donnelly, who shifted in his seat.

“Aye, guv’nor. We’ve been working through the victim’s address book and have got hold of most of his closer friends. The ones who appear frequently in his diary. We’ll track down the remaining friends and associates soon enough.

“So far, they all say the same thing—victim was a nice kid. He was indeed a homosexual. One of his buddies, a guy called Robin Peak, had a relationship with him in the past. He was pretty sure Daniel was working as a male prostitute. Not hanging around public toilets in King’s Cross though. Apparently he was relatively high end, hence the decent stuff in his flat, but this Robin guy said Daniel would hardly ever take clients back there. Only a select few who could afford to pay the extra hundred pounds or so he charged for the privilege. He would usually go to their places or a decent hotel, or sometimes he would take care of a punter in nearby toilets, though it cost extra if you wanted him to slum it.

“His flat was very much a secret hideaway. Only a handful of people knew where he lived, and we’ve spoken to most of them. None of them come across as the knife-wielding maniac type. We have all their details anyway.

“According to Mr. Peak, the victim liked the club scene. The gay club scene. It’s also how he met most of his clients. He’s well known at a number of gay nightspots. We’ll begin checking them out as soon as.” Donnelly looked around the room.

“How many?” Sean asked.

“About five or six.”

“Have any of his friends been able to tell us where the victim was on Wednesday night, Thursday morning?”

“No. But the consensus is that he would probably have been at a club called Utopia, down in Vauxhall. Under the railway arches. His usual Wednesday hangout.”

“Good,” Sean said, before passing out instructions in his usual quick-fire way. “Andy—you keep on the lab’s back. I want my results as soon as possible. Sooner.” DS Roddis nodded.

“Dave—take who you want and get to work tracking down witnesses who were at Utopia on Wednesday. Start with the employees.” Donnelly scribbled notes on a pad.

“Sally—take whoever’s left and begin checking intelligence records for people who have assaulted homosexuals in the past. Not any old bollocks, I mean serious assaults, including sexual assaults. Start with the Met and if that’s no good check our neighboring forces, and then go national if you have to.” Sally’s head nodded in agreement as she too scribbled notes. “Check the names lifted from the victim’s address book first—you never know your luck.”

Sean threw the discussion open, causing the increasing murmurs to temporarily fade. “Can anyone think of anything? Have we missed anything? Anything obvious? Anything not so obvious? Speak now, people.” No one spoke. “In that case the next get-together we have will be on Monday, same time. I need some results by then. The powers that be will want easy answers to this, so let’s find them and finish this one before it turns into a saga.”

The meeting broke up as noisily as a class of schoolchildren being dismissed for the weekend. Sean walked to his office alone, closing the door behind him. He picked up a large envelope waiting on his desk and without thinking emptied out the contents. Copies of photographs of the victim spilled out in front of him. He stared at them, not touching them. He spun his stool around and looked out of the window, the sun still brilliant in the sky. The photographs had caught him off guard. If he had known they were in the envelope, he would have taken time to prepare himself before spilling hell across his desk.

Now he wanted to retreat from his world. He wanted to phone his wife, to be in touch with a softer reality for a minute or two—he wanted to hear her reassuring doctor’s voice. He wanted her to tell him unimportant things about their daughters, Mandy and Louise. Kate would be getting them ready for a trip to the park. He needed a snapshot of his other, better life, but he delayed a few seconds, long enough for ugly thoughts to rush his mind. He closed his eyes as the image of his father’s fist slammed into his face, the face of his childhood—hot, stinging breath growing ever closer. He pressed his knuckles into his temples and pushed the past away. Once his mind cleared, he reached for the phone on his desk and dialed the number he knew so well, praying it would be answered by a voice that existed in the here and now and not just a mechanical-sounding recording of the person he needed to hear live. Moments later the phone was answered by a friendly but businesslike voice—the voice of his wife.

“Hello,” she said, the pitch of her voice rising on the
o
.

“It’s me.”

“I guessed it probably would be—the number was withheld.”

“Aren’t the hospital numbers withheld?”

“Some are. For a second I was afraid I was about to get called into work for some emergency or another. Anyway—how are you doing?” Sean answered with a sigh she’d heard many times before. “That good, eh? Is it a bad one?”

“Is there such a thing as a good one?”

“No. I suppose not.”

“Anyway—what are you doing?”

“In the park with the kids. Too nice a day to be stuck inside. What about you?”

“In my office looking at . . . looking at some reports,” he lied as his eyes fell on the crime scene photographs. He knew Kate could handle it, better maybe than he could, but such things had no place in the park with his wife and children on a sunny day.

“Sorry,” she sympathized, trying to read his voice for
signs.
“Sean?”

“Yeah.”

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

He sighed again before continuing. “Just . . . the block the crime scene was in reminded me of . . . you know.”

“Sean,” she counseled, “a lot of things remind you of your childhood—that can’t be helped. Your past will always be part of you—nothing can change that.”

“I know,” he assured her. “But the memories, the images are so much more real, vivid, when I’m in or close to a crime scene. Most of the time I can almost forget my childhood, but not when I’m in a place like that—not when I’m in a scene like that.”

“I understand, but we’ve talked about this—many times. It becomes more vivid because you use your imagination as a tool, and when you open the door to your imagination, you’re going to allow some demons out, Sean. It can’t be helped, but it can be controlled—you’ve already shown that.”

“I know,” he admitted. “I’m fine.”

“Why don’t you come home a little early—have some
normal
time for a couple of hours—drink too much and fool around?”

“No chance of that,” he told her. “Not for a few days yet, anyway.”

“Any idea how long this one’s going to take?”

“How long’s a piece of string?”

“That’s not good.”

“Is it ever?”

“Yes,” Kate told him. “When you’re at home, with us—that’s good.”

“When I am there.”

“Well, then be here. Remember, all work and no play makes Sean a—”

“Makes me a what?” he interrupted, thinly veiled anger suddenly in his voice.

“Nothing,” she answered. “I was just . . . nothing. I have to go now—the kids have run off. I’ll see you tonight. Be careful. I love you.” The line went dead—dead before he had a chance to say sorry for snapping at her—before he had a chance to ask about the girls—before he had a chance to tell her he loved her too.

CHAPTER 6

Friday

S
ean drove the car through heavy Central London traffic while Donnelly spoke, his notebook flipped open on his thigh. “The man we need to talk to works for some international finance company, Butler and Mason. After this morning’s briefing, I popped into one of the nightclubs on the list. Place in Vauxhall. They were cleaning up last night’s mess, but the head of security was still there. He also works the door at the club during opening hours.” Sean listened without interrupting. Donnelly checked his notebook. “Stuart Young’s the guy’s name. Now, he says he knew our victim; not bosom buddies, but he knew him to speak to and he knew he worked the club for clients too.”

“He was okay with that?” Sean asked.

“Apparently so. As far as he’s concerned, it happens. If he tried to stop every bit of naughtiness that went on in the club they wouldn’t stay in business too long.” Sean raised his eyebrows. “And young Daniel was apparently subtle about it, didn’t have too many clients, kept it all nice and low-key.”

“If I was a cynic, I might suspect Mr. Young was turning a blind eye because Daniel was paying him to do so.”

Donnelly continued. “Either way, Young confirms that Daniel was in Utopia on Wednesday night.”

“Was he with anyone in particular?”

“Afraid not. According to Young, Daniel spent some time with a couple of his regulars, guys who have been going to the club for years.”

“Have we spoken with them yet?”

“I spoke with them both myself. I gave Young my number and asked him to phone around to the victim’s regular tricks. Among those who already got back to me are the men he was with Wednesday night.” Donnelly flicked through his notebook again. “Sam Milford and a Benjamin Briggs. Both seemed pretty upset by the whole thing, both happy to provide samples. Neither great suspect material.”

“Any other clients been in touch?”

“They certainly have. The grapevine has been working nicely for me, but they all seem much of a muchness—all very upset, all willing to cooperate. No great suspects yet, but maybe that’ll change when I meet them face-to-face.”

“But you don’t think so, do you?”

Donnelly shrugged. “The victim’s clients aren’t looking too likely, so I did a little bit more digging.”

“And?”

“Okay.” Donnelly sounded like a mock game-show host. “Possible suspect number one—Steven Paramore, male, thirty-two years old, white. Sally had Paulo check local intelligence records and he found this guy, recently released from Belmarsh having just served eight years for the attempted murder of a teenage rent boy back in 2005. Apparently he almost beat the victim to death with his bare hands.”

“Nice.”

“After his release he went back to live with dear old mum, who I’m sure must be fucking delighted.”

“What’s his address?”

“Bardsley Lane, Deptford.”

“Close to Graydon’s flat,” Sean said.

“Close enough,” Donnelly agreed. “And he’s a very angry man—served nearly a full sentence because of his bad behavior inside. It’s also suspected he’s a closet homosexual himself.”

“Is that what you think our killer is?”

“What, a homosexual?”

“No. Angry.”

“Don’t you?”

“Maybe. Check him out anyway. In fact, have Paulo check him out—he dug him up.”

“No problem. Now, moving on to suspect number two: Jonnie Dempsey, male, white, twenty-four years old, an Aussie, works as a barman in Utopia and is known to be a friend of Daniel’s, although no suggestion yet he was anything more, but . . . Anyhow, he was supposed to be working the night Daniel was killed, only he didn’t show. And he hasn’t been seen since. The manager’s been trying his mobile and home numbers relentlessly, but no joy. Jonnie Dempsey is very much missing. Daniel’s secret lover?” Donnelly suggested.

“I don’t know.” Sean sounded unconvinced. “Like I said, this doesn’t feel like a domestic.”

“Maybe it’s not,” Donnelly half-agreed. “Maybe there’s more to Jonnie Dempsey than anyone’s giving him credit for?”

“Fine. Find him. Check him out. But neither Paramore nor Dempsey sound like they work at Butler and Mason International Finance, so why are we here? Whose day are we about to spoil?”

“The guy we’re about to fall out with is called James Hellier.” Sean noticed Donnelly didn’t have to refer to his notebook to recall the name.

“And why should I be interested in James Hellier?” Sean asked, trying to clear his mind of the avalanche of admin and protocol he’d had to deal with since the investigation began. He needed a clear mind if he was going to have any chance of thinking freely and imaginatively.

“Show me a liar and a man with a lot to lose and I’ll show you a pretty good suspect—Hellier’s both those things.”

“How so?”

“Stuart Young told me that Daniel generally liked to play it safe, keep to established, regular customers, so it’s always a wee bit of a surprise when a new guy comes on the scene.”

“And a new guy had come on the scene?”

“Aye,” Donnelly explained. “Only appeared about a week ago. Kept himself to himself, didn’t mix, didn’t cause trouble either, but Young’s pretty sure he had relations of the paying kind with Daniel at least once. He says he saw them outside the club, before they headed off together.”

“Go on,” Sean encouraged, listening more intently now, a mental picture of the man they were about to meet beginning to form in his thoughts. Not of his physical appearance, but of his state of mind, his possible motivation, his ability or not to take the life of a fellow man.

“Okay. First, Young told me he had asked Daniel about this newcomer a few nights after he’d seen them outside together—nothing heavy, just small talk. Daniel told him that the man was called David, no surname mentioned, and that he worked in the City and lived alone somewhere out west. But then things get a little more complicated. You see, Young was working the door the night the newcomer first appeared, when a regular punter came in, a”—Donnelly quickly checked his notebook again—“a Roger Bennett. Now Bennett, who’s known Young for years, sees this newcomer David and makes for the exit sharpish. Young asks him if there’s a problem and Bennett tells him there is, the problem being that Bennett knows our friend David.”

“How?” Sean asked unnecessarily.

“Through work. Bennett works for a big men’s magazine in the West End—you know the type of glossy rag, all cars and tits. Anyway, this new guy’s been to his office a number of times to do their accounts.”

“So?” Sean was growing impatient.

“The problem being, Bennett is gay, as you may have guessed, but he doesn’t want anyone at work to find out. Apparently it wouldn’t go down too well in his office. So he decamps from the club and asks Young to give him a ring if and when David disappears from the scene.

“No big deal, but I figure if this David’s been with the victim, we need to speak to him anyway. So Young gives me Bennett’s number and I give him a ring and ask him where I can find this David. He tells me he doesn’t have the foggiest what I’m talking about, but when I remind him of the night he left the club on the hurry-up, et cetera, et cetera, it all comes back to him and he opens up. And guess what he tells me?”

Sean answered immediately. “He’s not called David and he doesn’t work in the City.”

Donnelly froze for a second, a little deflated that Sean had made the leap without needing any more information. “Dead right, Bennett reckons that David’s real name is James Hellier and he works for Butler and Mason International Finance. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Sean didn’t answer. “What you didn’t know,” Donnelly continued, a satisfied smile spreading across his face, “is that, according to Bennett, Hellier also has a wife and a couple of kiddies. Interested?”

“Hmm,” Sean replied. He was interested. “Like you said, ‘Show me a liar and a man with a lot to lose . . .’ But this doorman, Young, did he ever see Hellier in the club before that night, or after?”

“No, but he doesn’t work there every night.”

“CCTV?”

“Their system’s ancient—still runs on VHS, if you can believe it. They reuse the tapes after seven days. The tapes from last week are already recorded over, but we can check the current tapes to see if he’s been there anytime during the last few days.”

“Get it done,” Sean told him as they pulled up outside an old Georgian mansion block converted into exclusive offices. Identical buildings ran the length of the long road, all painted white with black-trimmed windows and doors adorned with heavy, shiny brass numbers. Pointed metal railings fenced off the entrances to the basements, curling up and along the short flights of stairs leading to the front door, where visitors were met by pristine brass plates announcing the company within. Only Arabs and the aristocracy could afford to actually live here now.

The two detectives climbed from their Ford and walked across the pavement to the building’s entrance. “Here we go, Butler and Mason International Finance. Shall we?” Donnelly rang the outside security buzzer. They didn’t have to wait long. A female voice crackled back from the intercom. “Butler and Mason. Good morning. How can I help?”

“Detective Inspector Corrigan and Detective Sergeant Donnelly from the Metropolitan Police.” Donnelly deliberately avoided stating they were from the Murder Investigation Team. “Here to see a Mr. James Hellier.” He made it sound as if they had an appointment. It didn’t work.

“Is he expecting you?” came the voice through the small metal box. Donnelly looked at Sean and shrugged his shoulders. Time to put a little pressure on.

“No. He’s not expecting us, but I can assure you he will want to see us.”

Whoever it was on the intercom wasn’t easily bullied. “Can I ask what it’s in connection with, please?”

“It’s a private matter concerning Mr. Hellier,” Donnelly told her. “We believe someone may have stolen some checks from him. We need to speak with him before someone empties his bank account.” The threat of losing money usually opened doors.

“I see. Please come in.”

The door buzzed. Donnelly pushed it open. They passed through a second security door and into the reception area of Butler and Mason, where they were met by a tall, attractive young woman. She wore expensive-looking spectacles and an equally expensive-looking tailored suit. Her hair was hazelnut brown and tied back in a perfect ponytail. Sean thought she looked unreal.

“The voice on the intercom, I assume?” Donnelly asked. She smiled a perfect, practiced smile that meant nothing.

“Good morning, gentlemen. If I could just see your identification, please?”

Neither Sean nor Donnelly had their identification ready. Donnelly rolled his eyes as they fished their small black leather wallets from inside jacket pockets and presented them flipped open to the secretary.

“Thank you.” She looked up at them after examining the identification more closely than they were used to. “If you would like to follow me, Mr. Hellier has agreed to see you straightaway. His office is on the top floor, so I suggest we take the lift.”

Clearly Hellier was doing well for himself. They followed her to the lift, where she pulled open the old-fashioned concertina grid and then the lift doors. She stepped inside and waited for them to join her before pressing the button for the top level. They moved silently up through the building until the lift juddered to a halt. She opened the doors and another grid. Sean was losing patience with the charade. They stepped out into the upper reaches of the building and walked along the opulent corridors without talking, the high ceilings providing plenty of wall space to hang portraits of people long since dead. The entire office reeked of money and was much bigger inside than they had expected. Eventually they arrived at a large mahogany door. The nameplate attached bore the inscription
JAMES HELLIER. JUNIOR PARTNER
. The secretary knocked twice before pushing the door open without waiting for a reply. “Some gentlemen from the police to see you, sir.”

James Hellier was as elegant as the secretary. A little under six feet. About forty years old, athletic build. Light brown hair, immaculately cut. He looked healthy and fit in the way the rich do. Good food. Good holidays. Expensive gyms and skin-care products. His suit probably cost more than Sean earned in a month. Maybe two.

Hellier held out a hand. “James Hellier. Miss Collins said something about my checks being stolen, but I really don’t think that’s likely, you see—”

The secretary had already left the office and closed the door. Sean cut across Hellier. “That’s not actually why we’re here, Mr. Hellier. Your checks are fine. We need to ask you a few questions, but we thought it best to be discreet until we had a chance to speak with you.”

Sean was studying him. In an inquiry like this a witness could turn into a suspect within seconds. Was he looking at the killer of Daniel Graydon?

“I hope you haven’t come here to try and obtain client details. If you have, then I hope you’ve brought a production order with you.”

“No, Mr. Hellier. It’s about your visits to the Utopia club.”

Hellier sat down slowly. “Excuse me. I’m not familiar with that club. The only club I belong to, other than my golf club, is Home House in Portman Square. Perhaps you know it?”

Sean was trying to judge the man. He was sure Hellier was lying, but he sounded remarkably confident. “DS Donnelly here’s been making some inquiries at the club. You’ve been recognized.”

“Who by?” Hellier asked.

“I’m not prepared to tell you that at this time.”

“I see,” Hellier said, smiling. “A silent accuser then.”

“No. Just someone who wants to remain anonymous for now.”

“Well, whoever it is, they’re lying. I can assure you I’ve never heard of a club called Utopia.”

“Mr. Hellier, I’ve had all the club’s CCTV tapes from the last couple of weeks seized. As we speak, some of my officers are going through them. They’ll be producing stills of all the people on the tapes. How sure are you that when I look through those stills I am not going to see a picture of you? Because if I do, I am going to start wondering why you’re lying. Do you understand?”