Cold Killing: A Novel (12 page)

I pushed her face into the plastic sheets and turned her onto her stomach. Her crying became more desperate. I grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and by the tape around her knees and lifted her easily out of the boot. She was even slighter than I’d imagined. I carried her like an old suitcase into the building and threw her on the hard, cold ground. If she hadn’t been gagged, she would have called out in pain.

I grabbed her hair and pulled her face close. Those beautiful eyes stared into mine. “I’m going to cut you free now. Do as I say and you’ll live. Fuck up or scream and you die. You die slowly. Understand?” She closed her eyes and nodded frantically.

I pulled the knife out and made sure she saw it. She was squealing again behind the tape. She pulled away from me. I yanked her back painfully. She got the message.

First I cut the tape around her ankles. Then I pulled it away from her mouth. She gasped for air. I sensed she was about to speak. I pulled her face closer. “Speak—you die.”

I cut the tape from around her wrists and she rubbed at her skin. I let go of her hair and stepped back five paces. I wanted to see all of her. It was how I had foreseen it. How I had imagined it would be.

“Stand up,” I demanded, giving her a few seconds to struggle to her feet.

“Take your top off,” I ordered her.

Her face was twisted in fear and shame. She began to unbutton her dirty shirt. She moved slowly and that suited me fine. When she had finished unbuttoning it, I ordered her again to take it off. Slowly she pulled it off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her young breasts didn’t need one.

“Take your trousers off.”

Again I could tell she was about to speak. I put my finger to my lips. “Shhh.” She understood and struggled out of her sneakers before removing her trousers. They lay at her feet.

“The rest,” I demanded quietly.

Her sobbing intensified. She pulled her knickers off with one hand. The other covered her inadequate breasts. She turned sideways to me. The headlights from my car illuminated the inside of the building perfectly. She was perfect. I would ensure she never became anything less than perfect.

I moved close to her again. “Get on your knees.”

She mouthed a please. I pointed toward my groin with the knife. Her face was becoming even more twisted with fear and disgust.

I put my hands on her shoulders and pushed her onto her knees. I grabbed her hair and bent her head back as far as it would go. Her slender neck stretched out below me. In one motion I stepped away and swept the blade across her throat.

I kept moving backward as she held her throat in both hands. The blood seeped quickly through her fingers and dropped onto her naked chest. It ran across her small breasts and onto her stomach. She fell sideways to the floor before the blood reached lower. That was a shame.

I watched the last few seconds of her worthless life. At least now she would be remembered for something. Her death had more meaning than her life could ever have. She had become the purest work of art. I resisted the temptation to masturbate over her warm body.

She died still clutching her throat. Thin lines of the reddest blood streaked her face. Her eyes stared lifelessly. Diamonds. Perfection.

I stood just watching her for over two hours. I was lost. Totally captivated. The killing had been so much more satisfying than the previous ones. The knife. The intimacy. To watch the life ebb away. The colors. The textures.

Yes, I had taken more risks than before, but it was worth it. It had been necessary and the risks were manageable. Since she was left naked, the police would assume it was a sexual attack. It was not. I won’t pretend I didn’t enjoy seeing her naked. I did, but it wasn’t her sex I was interested in. That was irrelevant.

I left the girl where she was. Let the police have the body. I wanted them to find it. I wanted them to think they were looking for a manic killer. A spontaneous killer. A reckless killer. Not one like me.

I returned to the car and changed clothes. The used ones I tied in a plastic bag. I would take them to the city dump back at Brent Cross tomorrow, along with some old rubbish my wife had been nagging me to get rid of. After that I’d take the rented car back, having removed the false plates, of course. No doubt they would give the car a good cleaning for me too.

I drove back toward North London. Totally at ease by then. I was beginning to realize my potential. My power and control were unrivaled. It had been the most beautiful experience of my life—to take a life in this way—not in revenge or in a fit of temper, not when my blood was boiling with hatred and anger after being insulted and wronged, but a glorious execution of my right to do as I please and take whoever I want to take—my power. No hot blood coursed through my veins. My blood ran cold and she—she was a cold killing.

There was no going back now.

CHAPTER 12

Monday

S
ean hauled himself from his uncomfortable chair, stretching and yawning as he looked out of his office window at the flat roofs of the surrounding buildings, their surfaces littered with the detritus of man and nature. He hadn’t slept well the previous night, too many unanswered questions swimming around in his mind. His body ached miserably. A hopping bird caught his eye, its blue-black feathers shining in the sunlight, making its white patches barely visible, drawing his attention to the nearest of the rooftops. The magpie took oversize steps toward what had brought it to this desolate place, its head constantly jerking into new positions as it checked for danger and opportunity. Sean saw what it was moving toward—the half-concealed body of another bird—and assumed it had come to feast on a dead pigeon, but as it grew closer he realized it held something in its beak, something shiny, like a polished stone. He watched, fascinated, as the bird placed the object next to the body, then squawked loudly and sorrowfully before flying away. He squinted against the sun and focused as hard as he could on the small corpse below, the black and white feathers confirming what he’d already suspected. As he continued to watch the sad little drama more magpies came to see their fallen kinsman, each bringing gifts of twigs and shiny objects, food and things precious to their kind, always chasing away any pigeons that dared to approach the lifeless body, pecking violently at their eyes, prepared to kill to protect their dead. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t look away, until Donnelly burst into his office holding a set of car keys, shattering his temporary escape. “Going somewhere?” Sean asked.

“Drop your linen and stop your grinnin’. Fingerprints finally got back to us. They’ve matched a single print from the victim’s flat to Hellier. He was in the flat. There’s no mistake.”

“A single print?” Sean asked, confused. “Is it a partial?”

“No,” Donnelly reassured him. “It’s a full match.”

“Just one print.” Sean could tell he was alone in his skepticism. “Where did they find it?”

“On the underside of the door handle for the bathroom. The outside handle,” Donnelly informed him. “You don’t look overly excited,” he added.

Sean chased the doubts from his mind and tried to concentrate on the fact that finally he had usable, tangible evidence. His aches and pains faded as his excitement grew. “No wonder he didn’t want to give his fingerprints. Get hold of the surveillance team and find out where Hellier is now, and get Sally to sort out a couple of search teams. Once he’s nicked I want his office and home searched. No shit once-over. Full searches. With forensics too. You take one team and do his house. I’ll do his office with the other.”

Donnelly spun on his heels and left Sean’s office.

They always make a mistake, Sean thought. They always make a mistake.

T
he three unmarked police cars drove fast toward Knightsbridge. The surveillance had confirmed that Hellier was at his office. The blue lights attached to the roofs of the cars whirled while the sirens screamed at the midmorning traffic to clear the way.

Sean sat in the trailing car. He felt exuberant. He remembered that this was why he had joined the force. Driving fast through traffic. Lights flashing, sirens wailing. Envious looks from other drivers. Children pointing. It just didn’t happen enough.

They would arrest Hellier at his office and then search the entire place. Inch by inch. It didn’t matter to Sean who knew Hellier had been arrested. He wasn’t about to be subtle.

Maybe Hellier would confess when faced with the fingerprint evidence. If not, how was he going to talk his way out of it? With luck, Hellier would be charged with murder before dark.

Other officers, led by Donnelly, were on their way to Hellier’s house in Islington. They would wait until Sean sent word that Hellier had been arrested. As soon as he was, they would have the legal power to search his home for evidence relating to the murder of Daniel Graydon. Sean thought they had a better chance of finding something incriminating in Hellier’s office. Surely he wouldn’t risk leaving anything for his wife and kids to stumble across at home.

The three cars braked hard outside Hellier’s Knightsbridge office. They didn’t bother to look for parking spaces, just left the cars to block the road. A driver remained with each. The car doors seemed to open simultaneously. Nine police officers including Sean and Sally stepped out onto the tarmac. The heat had made it sticky.

They moved menacingly across the pavement to the front door of the building housing Hellier’s office. Sally pressed the buzzer for the ground floor, which housed a different company. No need to forewarn Hellier.

The intercom spoke. “Good morning. Albert Bray and Partners. Do you have an appointment with one of our consultants?”

“I’m a police officer and I need immediate access to this building.” There was a silence. Sally continued: “This doesn’t concern your company or any of your employees.”

The door buzzed and Sally pushed it open. The detectives moved quickly and quietly into the entrance hallway. Two remained close to the front door. The other seven walked fast up the stairs.

They reached Butler and Mason and another locked door. Sean pounded on it. Time to ruffle some well-groomed feathers. Within a few seconds the door was opened by the perfect-looking secretary. He swerved past her into the office itself. Her mouth dropped opened. Sean thought she was about to protest.

“Is Mr. Hellier in his office?” She was struck dumb. “I said, is Mr. Hellier in his office?” Nothing. “I’ll assume he is. Jim. Stan.” Two detectives looked at him. “You boys stay here and cover the front door. The rest with me and Sally.”

They strode along the corridor toward Hellier’s office. Finally the secretary found her voice. She chased after them. “You can’t go in there. Mr. Hellier is in a very important meeting.”

“Wrong” was all Sean said.

“You need a search warrant,” she argued.

“Wrong again,” Sean told her without looking.

He threw open Hellier’s door and walked straight in. The other detectives waited outside. Hellier sat at his desk, and Sebastian Gibran, who’d disturbed their last meeting, sat next to him, watching them as closely as Sean watched Hellier. Two other men Sean didn’t recognize sat opposite; they seemed terrified. Hellier never flinched. Sean kept moving. He was almost at Hellier’s side. He showed Hellier his identification.

“James Hellier, I’m Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan. This is Detective Sergeant Jones and Detective Constable Zukov. I’m arresting you for the murder of Daniel Graydon.

“You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so. However, it may harm your defense if you fail to mention something when questioned that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence against you.

“Do you understand the caution, Mr. Hellier?”

By the book, Sean thought. Best way with a slippery bastard like Hellier, especially with three witnesses sitting there with stunned expressions on their faces.

Hellier stared hard at him. Sean saw a flash of pure hatred. Hellier smiled and addressed the three men sitting opposite. “If you’ll please excuse me, gentlemen. It appears the police need me to help them with their inquiries.” He stood slowly, as if bored, and dramatically held out his wrists. “Aren’t you going to handcuff me, Inspector?”

“I would,” Sean said, “but you’d probably enjoy it.” He took hold of Hellier’s upper arm. Hellier felt strong. Solid. Sean was a little surprised. “Let’s go.”

Gibran tried to intervene, stepping in front of them. “Is this necessary?” he asked, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. Forever Butler and Mason’s chief negotiator and protector. “Surely this heavy-handedness is unwarranted?”

“Sorry, I don’t remember your name,” Sean said, leaning uncomfortably close to the man.

“Really?” Gibran said. “That’s odd. You don’t strike me as the sort of man who forgets very much about anything.”

“Keep your nose out of our business, Mr. Gibran,” Sean warned. “And let us decide what is and isn’t necessary.”

Gibran slowly stepped aside, holding out an upturned palm, indicating they could pass, as if they somehow needed his permission.

Sean and Zukov marched Hellier out of the office and along the corridor. When Hellier was certain no one else could hear or see him, his expression changed to a snarl, showing Sean a glimpse of the monster he knew lived beneath the mask. “Just get me my fucking solicitor.” He spat the words into Sean’s face.

D
onnelly and the other officers were already inside Hellier’s house. Donnelly was rifling through the drawers in the lounge, well-practiced eyes scanning papers, letters, everything. DC Fiona Cahill was at his side, handing him more papers she had found elsewhere in the room.

Elizabeth Hellier had recovered from mild shock and was now running around talking incessantly. Complaining and threatening. Her threats were idle. They could take the house apart and there would be little she could do about it.

Donnelly could bear her twittering no longer. “Mrs. Hellier, this is gonna happen with or without your objections. The quicker and easier this is, the sooner we’ll be out of here. Why don’t you take a seat in the kitchen? Have a cup of tea and stay out of the way.”

He steered Mrs. Hellier into the kitchen, guiding her onto a stool. Another detective peered around the kitchen door.

“Dave,” he said, “we’ve got a locked door.”

“My husband’s study,” Mrs. Hellier said. “He always keeps it locked during the day. I don’t know where the key is. I think he takes it to work.”

“Fine,” Donnelly said. He turned to the detective. “Break it open.”

“What?” Mrs. Hellier almost squealed. “Please, contact my husband. He’ll open it for you, I’m sure.”

“I think he’s probably got other things on his mind right now, Mrs. Hellier.” As Donnelly spoke, he could hear the unmistakable sound of splintering wood.

S
ean left the others to complete the search of Hellier’s office. It would take hours. He’d traveled back to the Peckham police station with Hellier, who had stared out of the window all the way. Hellier hadn’t responded to any approaches Sean had tried, and he’d tried plenty. Disgust. Aggression. Threats. Compassion. Understanding. It had been Sean’s only chance to go one-on-one with Hellier before the rules took over. Nothing had moved him. Yet.

Even when he was booked into the custody area, Hellier never spoke except to give his name and the details of the solicitor he demanded to speak with immediately. The custody officer assured him the solicitor would be called. He was about to have Hellier taken to his cell when Sean spoke. “One other thing . . .”

“Yes?” the sergeant asked.

“We want the clothes he’s wearing. All of them.”

“Okay. Take him to his cell—number four’s free. Forensic suits are in the cupboard at the end of the cell passage.”

Sean knew where the white paper suits were. Replacement clothing for suspects whose own clothes had been seized. They marked suspects who’d been arrested for serious crimes. Rapists. Murderers. Armed robbers. Police and other prisoners alike always paid more attention to men in white paper suits.

“Is there anyone I can call to have some replacement clothes brought for you, Mr. Hellier?” the sergeant asked. Hellier didn’t reply. The sergeant shrugged his shoulders. “He’s all yours, guv’nor.”

Sean nodded his appreciation and led Hellier to his cell.

DC Alan Jesson followed Sean and Hellier into the miserably dreary cell. He carried the brown paper bags all clothing exhibits were sealed in. Plastic bags caused too much moisture. Mold could grow quickly and destroy vital evidence. Paper let the clothes breathe. Kept evidence intact.

“Strip. Take everything off and then put this on.” Sean threw the white paper suit on the stone bench.

Hellier smiled and began to undress. The detective constable carefully folded Hellier’s Boss suit, Thomas Pink shirt, and the rest of his clothing, then slid them into the brown paper bags. The detective wasn’t concerned about creasing the clothes, he was taking care not to lose any forensic evidence that might be entwined in the fibers of the clothing.

Sean glanced at Hellier’s naked body. He had the physique of an Olympic gymnast, only slimmer, denser, and more defined. Physically he would be more than a match for Sean, and that rarely happened.

Hellier looked at him. He spoke silently in his mind.
Enjoy your moment, bastard, because you will pay for this. I swear I will destroy you, Detective Inspector Corrigan. I will end you.

D
onnelly and his team had been searching Hellier’s home for over three hours. They had bagged and tagged most of Hellier’s clothing and shoes, but had found nothing startling.

Donnelly was searching through Hellier’s desk drawers. They’d had to break them all open, one by one. Elizabeth Hellier had sworn she didn’t have keys.

All their search had turned up was further evidence that Hellier was as wealthy as he looked. He had a number of bank accounts: Barclays, HSBC, Bank of America, ASB Bank in New Zealand. Each containing in excess of a hundred thousand pounds or the foreign equivalent. Donnelly let out soft whistles as he added up the sums, but other than that he found nothing.

He needed to stand and stretch. As he pushed the chair back from the desk he felt a stinging pain in his thigh. He looked down and saw a rip in his trouser leg.

“Oh, you bastard,” he declared. “What the bloody hell was that?” He put his hand under the desk and felt around. He touched something. It was small and cold. Something metal.

He pushed the chair away and ducked under the table. He saw them immediately. Not one, but two shiny keys taped underneath the desk. He didn’t touch them.

“Peter—get the photographer in here. I need a picture taken.”

Only when the keys had been photographed and fingerprinted did Donnelly remove them from under the desk. The tape used to hold them in place had been carefully removed and sealed in a plastic evidence bag. Who knew how many microscopic pieces of evidence clung to its sticky back?