Cold Killing: A Novel (10 page)

“Then why have you got the team chasing the blackmail theory, not to mention Paramore and Dempsey?”

“I need to make things appear straightforward, just for a while longer. It’ll buy me time to think the way I need to think. Once I show my hand, things will get a lot more complicated around here. I can’t see clearly when I’m crowded, and besides, Paramore and Dempsey must be found and spoken to. I could turn out to be wrong about Hellier.”

“So you don’t think Hellier was being blackmailed, but you do think he could have killed Graydon.”

“I do.”

“Care to share why?”

“Because I don’t believe in coincidences. Hellier’s bad to the core. It’s simply in his nature. You know the type of animal I’m talking about. We’ve both dealt with them before. And now someone Hellier was connected to is dead.

“If I’m right about him, then his motive for killing is the killing itself. He’s a very rare breed; the chances that Graydon came across two such people are extremely remote, although not impossible.”

Donnelly slumped in a chair, exasperated. “Bloody hell, guv, this is all a bit loose. You wouldn’t want to take it to court.”

“Agreed, but there’s another way to go after Hellier. He has no anxiety about this case. When I speak to him about it, I can’t feel anything. No panic, concerns, doubt, nothing. He’s absolutely sure he’s gotten away with it.”

“If he did it,” Donnelly reminded him. Sean ignored the warning.

“He was at his most confident when we were talking about the Graydon case. So long as we stuck to that, he was totally in his comfort zone. That tells me he’s left us very little, if anything.”

“But?”

“But at other times I’ve sensed his anxiousness.”

“About what?”

“About something else. Something that could betray him.” Sean sat and faced Donnelly. “Something in his past. Maybe he’s—”

“You think he’s killed before?” Donnelly interrupted.

“If he’s the type of animal I think he is, then there is a very real possibility he has. When I read the old case files from General Registry, hopefully some detail will stand out.”

“You are aware of what you’re saying?”

“Of course I am.” Sean looked him in the eye. “That’s why this has to stay between the two of us for now. I’ll fill Sally in when I get a chance.”

“God forbid the powers that be find out you reckon you’re onto a serial killer. This place will go fucking crazy with senior officers trying to get their faces on the telly.”

“Then they’d better not find out.”

“Indeed,” Donnelly agreed as he stood up. “But there’s one thing that still doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Go on.”

“Why would Hellier kill Graydon if he knew we could connect them? Why would he pull us on top of him like that? Is he trying to play games with us? Is he one of those sick fuckers who wants to get caught?”

“No,” Sean answered. “Hellier absolutely doesn’t want to get caught. Trust me. There is nothing self-destructive about Hellier.”

“Then why?”

“For one of two reasons. Because he wanted to or because he had to.”

“Well?” Donnelly asked, his hands held apart. “Which one is it?”

“I don’t know,” Sean confessed. “I just don’t know. I keep going over it and over it, but every time I think I’m close to understanding why, it all melts away. There’s something not quite right, something I’m missing. Christ, it’s so close I could fucking touch it, but I can’t see it yet.”

“We’ll find out why soon enough,” said Donnelly.

“To be honest, with Hellier I’m not so sure.” The doubt was unusual for Sean. “That’s why we go after his past. Identify his earlier offenses. That’s where he’s vulnerable. I’m certain of it.”

“If indeed he has offended before.”

“He has,” Sean insisted. “There’s no doubt. All I need to know is who, where, and when. And why the hell his prints aren’t on file.”

“I don’t know, boss,” Donnelly admitted. “This all feels like a bit of a stretch to me. Maybe we shouldn’t be homing in on Hellier so much? Stretch our horizons a little. See if we can’t rake up a few more viable suspects.”

“You think I’m fixating on Hellier?” Sean snapped. “You think I’m putting the investigation at risk?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But it’s what you’re thinking.” Sean regretted the words as soon as they’d left his mouth. He wished he could explain to Donnelly how he could be so certain of something long before the evidence justified it. How he’d seen the killer strutting around Daniel Graydon’s flat, calm and content, the dead man lying in an ever-increasing pool of blood, of no concern to him now—an empty shell that had served its purpose. But he knew he couldn’t tell Donnelly what he had seen. He couldn’t tell Donnelly that when he looked into Hellier’s face he saw more than just skin, bone, and flesh—he saw into the man’s soul and could see only darkness.

S
ally walked into New Scotland Yard, a huge glass building just around the corner from Parliament Square. Standard searches of criminal intelligence and conviction databases had yielded nothing. It was time to try something a little different, which was why she’d come to check the Method Index. They kept records of serious and violent crimes, as well as unusual crimes. If an offender used the same peculiar method more than once, it was possible he or she could be identified here. Sally walked into the Method Index office and glanced around the small beige room. Wooden desks were squeezed together. Ancient, worn-out computers filled every corner. Large posters adorned the walls advertising what the department could do for you. Everything seemed old. The two people in the room looked surprised to have a visitor. One, a thin, bespectacled, middle-aged man nervously closed the filing cabinet he’d been tending and hesitantly moved toward Sally. He spoke shyly.

“Are you looking for somebody?” He had a Yorkshire accent, unblunted by years in London.

Sally realized they didn’t get many visitors. “Well, if this is Method Index, I guess I’ve found the right place.” She tried to sound enthusiastic. “DS Sally Jones, from Serious Crime Group South.” She held out her hand and hoped the mention of her unit might stir some interest. The nervous man seemed confused. “The Murder Squad,” Sally added. “SCG is the Murder Squad.”

“Oh,” the man said. “That’s what you’re called now. They keep changing the names of things so much I can never keep up.” He accepted the offer of Sally’s outstretched hand and shook it with a smile. “I’m DC Harvey Williams. Everyone calls me Harve. They put me in charge of this little team a few years ago and I think they’ve forgotten about me, to be honest.” He pointed at a young man with long hair who was sifting through an ocean of paper files. “That’s Doug. He’s a civilian. The rest of the team are off today. In fact, the only reason anyone’s here is because we’re moving all our old paper files onto the computers. We don’t get much of a chance for overtime here, so when they offered . . .”

So this was the Met’s answer to the world-famous FBI Behavioral Science Unit. An aging detective constable the world had forgotten about and a handful of unqualified civilian employees. She may have made a mistake coming here, but on the other hand, what did she have to lose apart from an afternoon?

DC Williams continued. “How can we help you, DS Jones?”

“I’m interested in any profiles of murderers that fit our case.”

Williams pursed his lips. “We don’t do profiles here, I’m afraid. We have methods of crime used by people. Not profiles of them.”

Sally understood the difference. A profile referred to a psychological profile of an offender. It was rarely used by the Metropolitan Police. Despite being highly publicized in the media and films, the truth was that psychological profiles were of very limited value. Matching methods of crime to offenders was far more useful.

“I apologize. Slip of the tongue.”

“No need to apologize,” he said cheerfully. “Grab a seat. Anywhere you like. No small-time imperialists in this office. Now, tell me what you’re after. Spare me no details. The devil’s always in the details. Absolutely always in the details.”

L
ondon steamed. Sean couldn’t remember another summer like it. No rain. No wind. No relief. The devil’s own weather. His mobile was ringing. He kept driving and answered, “DI Corrigan.”

“Hello, guv’nor.” It was Donnelly. “Just to let you know, I’m with the surveillance team. Making sure they don’t spend a week following the wrong man.”

“Good. Any movement from Hellier?”

“Nah. He’s still at home. He hasn’t been out anywhere yet. He’s only looked out the window once. Didn’t seem to be checking for us, though.”

“I’m coming to join you,” Sean announced. “I’ll call your mobile when I’m in the area. If he moves, ring me.” He hung up.

Donnelly turned to DC Paulo Zukov, sitting next to him. Zukov spoke. “Problem?”

“Nah, but be aware. The guv’nor’s on his way.”

S
o what makes you think Method Index can help with your murder?” DC Williams asked. “Unusual, is it?”

“A little unusual,” Sally replied. “The victim was stabbed an excessively large number of times, having already been half killed with a couple of blows to the head. The weapon used was an ice pick or stiletto knife of some sort. More important, the victim was a homosexual. Almost certainly a male prostitute.

“I’m not interested in someone with a history of homophobic behavior per se. I’m looking for something heavier. Really violent attacks. Possibly sexual attacks or attacks that could have some sexual overtones. Anything like that. Can you help?”

“We can work with that. As for the drunken queer-bashing stuff, we wouldn’t have that sort of attack on our records anyway. Not distinct enough.”

DC Williams walked over to a large gray cabinet in a corner of the office. He talked as he thumbed through the files within. “Some of our records go back fifty years or so. The really sensitive ones. Preferred methods of terrorists, professional hit men, that sort of thing. But mostly our records refer to sex offenders, pedophiles. People most likely to reoffend. We don’t have too many murderers. Most are such dull affairs, one-off acts of stupidity. But you would already know that.”

Sally was relieved. She didn’t fancy spending the entire day reading through ancient files in the cramped office.

“We’ve got only a few hundred on record,” Williams added, grinning. Sally slumped. “Shouldn’t take too long if we both look through them.”

He pulled out as many files as he could manage and carried them to Sally’s desk. “That’s the last decade of interesting murders of homosexuals. Unfortunately, most of our records haven’t been transferred onto the computer system yet, so if you have a look at this little lot, I’ll see what we have on our computerized records.” He began to whistle as he tapped away on the terminal’s keyboard.

Sally took off her jacket and pushed all the files to one side of the desk. She picked the first one at random and began to read.

H
ellier knew they were there. He could sense their presence. He couldn’t see them from his study, but it made no difference. They were there. They were good. Not clumsy. Not impatient. He wondered how many would be on the surveillance team. They called the officers on motorbikes “solos.” Pathetic police jargon. Still, he had a problem. Things would get difficult if he was followed everywhere by these flat-footed fools. DI Corrigan was responsible, no doubt. Christ, he was an irritating fucker. How best to deal with DI Corrigan?

Time to make another phone call. Maybe he would go for a run a little later, weaving through the Sunday crowds in Upper Street’s antiques market before jumping on and off a few buses and underground trains, laughing at the police as they struggled and ultimately failed to keep up with him.

He spoke to the police he couldn’t see.

“I hope you’re prepared for a long day, fuckers. You’ll have to improve your play if you want to win the prize.”

S
ally carefully read the first dozen files. It was clear why these particular murders had been deemed unique enough for Method Index’s files of infamy. Some were almost funny they were so bizarre, but most were just horrific.

Her thoughts began to drift to the victims. Had they had any idea of what was going to happen to them? Had they been scared, confused, or even angry once they realized death was upon them? And why had they been selected? What had drawn their killers to them? The way they looked, moved, or spoke? Or was it pure bad luck? The wrong place at the wrong time? Probably a little of each.

She’d been reading for over three hours. A couple of times something pricked her attention, but each time her interest faded away as she uncovered details inconsistent with what she was looking for. DC Williams’s voice broke her concentration.

“DS Jones . . .”

“What is it?” Sally asked.

“I think you should take a look at this. I may have found something.”

S
ean had joined up with Donnelly and Zukov. The three men sat quietly in the unmarked Mondeo. Sean sat in the back staring out of the window, constantly reevaluating the evidence, searching for anything he could have overlooked. The radio crackled into life with the voices of the surveillance team. “Target one still stationary in blue.”

“Lima Two breaking for a natural.”

“Received, Lima Two.”

“Lima Three will cover.”

“Received, Lima Three.”

Donnelly spoke for them all. “If Hellier moves off, I hope they stop chattering in that language of theirs, because I for one can’t understand a bloody word they’re saying.”

Sean’s mobile rang. He answered it quickly. “DI Corrigan.”

“Guv’nor? Sally here.”

Sean sensed an increased degree of excitement in her voice. “You sound like you have something for me.”

“I think I might have.”

Sean checked his watch. It was almost lunchtime. He was hoping to spend most of the day following Hellier. He felt as if the longer he was close to the man, the more he could think like him. “Can it wait till morning?”

“I suppose so,” Sally answered.

It was no good though and he knew it. If he didn’t find out what Sally had, he would never rest. “Can you give it to me on the phone?”