Imperfect Killing (9 page)

‘Hell of a plan,’ Benton told him, ‘if, that is, any of it’s true.’

‘Who is it exactly you’re talking about?’ Mendham asked.

‘I can’t tell you,’ Sean answered as he continued up the stairs to the car park followed by the others.

‘We need to seize all the boiler suits,’ Benton pointed out, ‘and the gloves and balaclavas.’

‘No,’ Sean snapped back. ‘We need to use them – use them to snare our rabbit.’

‘How?’ Benton asked.

‘Fear,’ Sean told him before walking past them down the stairs and back inside. Again the others followed him, Benton closing the door behind them. ‘Don’t let anyone touch any of the boiler suits, gloves or balaclavas,’ he instructed Mendham, ‘and especially don’t let anyone touch the revolver.’

‘Should I lock it away?’ he checked.

‘No,’ Sean insisted. ‘I need them all left out – for a while anyway.’

‘This is risky, Sean,’ Benton argued. ‘What if someone takes any of it before the suspect comes looking? We could lose our only evidence.’

‘I’ll make sure no one takes it,’ Mendham assured him.

‘But if you’re always hanging around the shooter won’t risk coming anyway,’ Benton explained, ‘so it would all be for nothing.’

‘He’ll come,’ Sean stepped in.

‘And risk being seen?’ Benton asked.

‘He’ll think he has no choice. He’ll come anyway, ready with some excuse as to why he needs to look around. If he sees you then he’ll try and distract you,’ he told Mendham. ‘Get you out of the way long enough to take what he needs.’

‘It would be a lot easier if you told me who
he
is,’ Mendham pointed out.

‘I can’t,’ Sean told him. ‘Not yet. But when he comes I reckon you’ll have a pretty good chance of knowing it’s him.’

‘And what d’you want me to do while you’re talking him into walking into your trap?’ Benton asked. ‘Come with you?’

‘No,’ Sean replied. ‘You stay here. Find somewhere you can watch from without being seen.’

‘The raised platform in the corner,’ Mendham suggested helpfully. ‘I’m sure we can rig something for you there.’

‘Great,’ Benton rolled his eyes.

‘Fine,’ Sean answered more positively.

‘So I’m stuck in here for God knows how long,’ Benton complained.

‘You won’t be here long,’ Sean predicted. ‘Now, I need to see a man about a revolver.’

***

Sean stalked the corridor off the meeting room where he’d discovered Stokes was in attendance, waiting for his quarry to appear. Finally the door burst open and about a dozen people spilled from the room – some laughing, some more serious. Stokes was amongst the serious.
Still faking mourning,
Sean wondered,
or genuinely worried about the sudden attention of the police?
Sean stepped out in front of him, catching him totally unawares. He was pretty sure he registered a look of fear and annoyance on Stokes’ face, but the ex-presenter still managed a slight smile.

‘Excuse me, Mr Stokes,’ Sean addressed him, dispelling any chance he was there to see someone else.

‘Yes, Sergeant,’ he replied, taking a deep breath, ‘can I help you with something?’

‘Sorry,’ Sean began, trying to sound as harmless as he could.
Easy
, he reminded himself.
Just take it slow and set the trap.
‘When we spoke earlier I forgot to ask you how long you’ve known Miss Evans for.’

‘You sure?’ Stokes asked, his eyes narrowing. ‘I thought maybe you did.’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Sean persevered. ‘I was checking my notes of our … conversation and noticed my mistake. If you could just clear that up for me.’

‘Of course,’ Stokes seemed to relax and started to walk, Sean keeping pace. ‘I’d say it was about five or six years.’

‘Five or six years,’ he faked surprise. ‘That’s a long time. From watching the early shows you did with her I would never have guessed you’d known each other that long. When did you start making that show together – about two, three years ago?’

‘About that,’ Stokes replied sounding casual.

‘Yet by then you’d already known her for at least a couple of years.’

‘Known her,’ Stokes explained, ‘but we didn’t really become friends until we’d been filming together.’

‘And as friends you’d have known if she was seeing anyone?’

‘If it was anything more than a casual relationship, yes, I suppose she would have told me,’ Stokes co-operated, ‘but I thought we’d covered all this in some detail.’

‘’Yes,’ Sean sighed as he followed Stokes into his own office, ‘Yes we have. To be honest I’m just going over old ground, in case we’ve missed anything – before we really go to town on the man we already have in custody.’

‘Naturally,’ Stokes agreed as he sat in his chair. ‘But it certainly sounds like you’ve got the right man.’

‘Looks that way,’ Sean smiled, ‘although I’ll feel better once we find the gun he used, and the clothing too, if we’re lucky.’

‘You think you’ll find them?’ Stokes asked, involuntarily sitting forward a little. ‘I would have thought the gun would be at the bottom of the Thames by now and the clothes incinerated somewhere.’

‘No, no … I don’t think so,’ Sean told him.

‘No?’ Stokes asked.

‘No,’ Sean explained. ‘With someone like him, the gun would have been far too precious to get rid of, and the clothes too in all likelihood.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Stokes admitted.

‘The thing is,’ Sean continued, ‘this was no professional hit or gangland slaying – this was a crime of passion. The killer thought about it for months – maybe even years – planning every aspect of it, fantasizing about it. He probably did so holding the gun he eventually used and almost certainly while he was dressed in the clothes he wore when he killed her.’

‘But once he’d made his fantasy a reality surely he’d just get rid of the lot?’

‘No,’ Sean told him. ‘Once he’d used them in her murder they would have become even more precious to him. No doubt he planned to wear them over and over, holding the gun in his hand to help him relive every moment of killing her. We’re not dealing with a sane or rational man here, Mr Stokes. We’re dealing with a man who was obsessed – made homicidally insane by her rejection. We’ll find the gun and the clothes. I can assure you of that.’

‘And if by some chance you don’t?’ Stokes asked – his eyes a little narrower, his lips a little thinner – his body unwittingly betraying him with signs he couldn’t control.

‘Then I’ll know he didn’t kill her,’ Sean smiled with serpent eyes. ‘But we will. If not now then sometime in the future. We’ll keep looking for them, that’s for sure. Maybe someone else will find the gun and use it in another crime and drop it at the scene. Maybe someone will be stopped, searched and arrested for carrying it. As a matter of routine it would be sent to the lab for ballistic and DNA testing – to see if it had been used in other crimes. If it has our man’s DNA on it, we might be able to match it. If we find DNA on the gun maybe I’ll be told to take DNA from everyone who knew her or worked with her. We do it sometimes – I’m sure you’ve heard of it, seen it on the news.’

‘I see,’ Stokes answered, his confident veneer slipping further.

‘Maybe some time in the future the government will order the ballistic and DNA testing of all blank-firing guns as part of an initiative to clear up unsolved crimes,’ Sean continued, enjoying Stokes’ torment more than he knew he should. ‘Who really knows? But I know one thing – forensic DNA evidence is getting better and better. We can get DNA off almost anything now, no matter how old it is. Not a week goes by when we’re not arresting someone for something they thought they’d got away with years before. You were right about what you said: the only way to be really sure is to incinerate the clothes and throw the gun in the deepest part of the Thames. Anyway. Like I said – it’s only a matter of time. Modern science is a wonderful thing.’ Sean let his words sink in for a few seconds. ‘Well, once again thanks for your time. I’ll be in touch if we find anything.’ He stood to leave as Stokes found his voice.

‘I hope they give him life,’ he said without feeling. ‘No one wants to see him walk free just because he claims to have some sort of mental health problem.’

Sean just nodded and kept heading towards the door, only stopping and turning once he’d reached the exit. ‘Oh I wouldn’t worry about that,’ he assured Stokes. ‘Sue Evans’ killer will get life. That much I can promise you.’

***

He slowly pushed the door to the studio’s basement open and peered inside – only entering once he was sure no one was around. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it while he tried to control his rapid breathing. Lines of sweat ran down the sides of his face from his hair line. He was reminded of the morning, such a short time ago, when he had felt exactly the same as he did now – a mixture of terror and exhilaration, fear and determination. But above all else the dreadful feeling of having cast the die, only now to wish he hadn’t. All of the feelings he’d expected when he’d pulled the trigger had never come to be, leaving him with an emptiness and coldness that was like being trapped in a bad dream – the feeling of being hunted.

The split second before he’d fired he’d almost changed his mind, was prepared to run. But he’d been sure that somehow she’d recognized him, despite the balaclava. She’d recognized his
eyes
. Once he’d realized, he had no choice but to go through with it. Every second since he’d cursed himself for not wearing mirrored sunglasses – a simple pair of sunglasses that would have saved both their lives. And now the police were sniffing around the studio asking everybody and anybody questions about her. He’d assumed they’d be hanging around for the first day or so, and that they may even want to speak to him if he was unlucky, but for them to still be here, asking questions – it concerned him deeply, intensifying the fear that plagued him every second, whether he was awake or asleep. He reminded himself they’d already charged the stalker with her murder – an almost perfect suspect, one that everyone seemed happy to convict and lock away. Everyone that is except the over-conscientious DS Corrigan. But without hard evidence to the contrary even he would eventually have to accept the stalker’s guilt.

He pushed himself away from the door and headed for where he’d returned the clothes he’d worn that terrible morning – the boiler suit hidden in plain sight amongst the other items on the rack, the balaclava and gloves stuffed back in the boxes he took them from. He’d assumed they would remain there until they were thrown out or incinerated to make room for new props. The revolver too he’d planned to leave where it lay until it was no longer needed, after which it would have been broken down and disposed of. The perfect place to hide the tools of murder – right under everyone’s noses, but where they would never think to look. But now Corrigan’s little speech had changed his mind. He couldn’t risk any of the things Corrigan had suggested coming to fruition and needed to dispose of them permanently. The worst that could happen would be that the old man who ran the props store would think he’d mislaid the items himself, or that someone had taken them as souvenirs of some show they been involved in – hardly a matter that would ever be reported to the police. And he’d be able to sleep at night knowing the evidence that could hang him had been destroyed – at least he would do once the nightmares stopped.

He found the boiler suit he’d used, checking the number written on the inside label to ensure it was the right one, stuffing it into the plastic bag he pulled from his pocket. He did the same with the balaclava and gloves, and headed over to the firearms section – his eyes constantly scanning the room, his ears straining to hear any noise.

It didn’t take long to find the revolver, lying on the bench exactly where he’d left it. He reached out for it, but suddenly stopped – an overwhelming feeling of trepidation freezing him in mid-motion, as if touching the gun would somehow seal his fate. In the silence of the basement he could hear nothing but the beating of his own heart and it scared him more than anything else had ever scared him in his entire life. Every muscle and sinew in his body shivered as he pushed his hand through his fear and seized the gun, reassuring himself that he was still suffering from of the strange sickness that had overtaken him since he took a life, that any sense of premonition he thought he was having was just another symptom of that illness. He thrust the gun into the same bag, hiding it under the clothing, and made his way quickly to the door that would lead him back into the main staircase.

From there he would head up to his third-floor office, place the bag in his briefcase, dress in his coat and head for the lifts that would take him to the lobby where he’d wave politely to the receptionists and security before making his way to his car and home. He’d park his car in the garage overnight, leaving the items locked in the boot, so as not to attract the attention of his wife or children. In the morning, once his wife was at work and his children at school, he planned to fire up their large wood burner and incinerate the clothing, although he’d have to remove the zip from the ashes for further disposal. The gun too he planned to burn. He knew it wouldn’t destroy the metal, but at least it would obliterate any DNA or fingerprints. He’d decided not to throw it in the Thames as he’d first planned – too many prying eyes and CCTV cameras – but there was a park not too far away that had a large, deep lake. After the fire had done its job, he would pay a visit to the park with the zip and gun wrapped in a neat cloth parcel, ready for permanent disposal. If by some fantastic stroke of luck they were ever found in the future, so what? They could never be tied to him or even the murder of Sue Evans.

He pushed the door open and stepped out into the stairwell. Suddenly, the bag was snatched away from him and he was pushed against the wall – a strong hand keeping him pinned firmly in place. The blood and air drained from his body, leaving him almost incapable of even the most basic thought. When his eyes were again capable of focusing he saw Corrigan let the plastic bag he was holding fall open as he peered inside. As he tried to recover the nausea hit him so badly he thought he was going to vomit. He tried to speak, but no words would form. He saw Corrigan’s lips moving, but in his state of shock he couldn’t hear what was being said to him. A few seconds later the basement door opened once more and Benton joined them in the stairwell nodding enthusiastically at Corrigan. Finally his hearing returned enough for him to understand what they were saying.