Cold Killing: A Novel (13 page)

He held the keys up and asked the room a question. “Now. What do we use keys for?” Slowly he looked down at the drawers they’d broken open. The locks remained intact. He winced as he put one of the keys into the drawer lock. It didn’t fit. He tried the other. It fit. He grimaced before turning the key. The lock clicked open. “Oops,” he said. “I think we might be getting a bill for some broken antique furniture.”

He tried the other drawers. The key fit them all. He dropped it into an evidence bag and sealed it straightaway. He tossed the other key around in the palm of his hand and called out across the office. “Anyone finds a locked anything, let me know.”

A detective searching the walnut cabinets attracted Donnelly’s attention. “Hold on, there could be something under here.”

Donnelly moved closer and watched over his shoulder. He pulled back the carpet at the base of the cabinet. They stared at the floor safe. They looked at each other, then at the key in Donnelly’s hand.

He pushed the key into the lock. He could feel it was precision made. It slid into place as if it had been oiled. The heavy door opened upward.

The first thing he saw were bundles of cash, neatly rolled and held in place with rubber bands. He touched nothing. He could see they were mainly U.S. dollars. Hundred-dollar bills. Some sterling too—fifty-pound notes—and Singapore dollars, again in fifties. How much in total, he could only guess. He saw the unmistakable red cover of a British passport. He flicked it open—it was in Hellier’s name. This man could leave the country in a hurry if he had to.

There was something else, lying under the passport. A small black book. An address book? Donnelly was still on his knees. He looked up at the detective who’d discovered the floor safe.

“You’d better get that photographer back in here. And the fingerprint lady too. I don’t know what all this is about, but it’s got to mean something.”

S
ally’s search team had arrived back at the station at about 2
P.M.
She sat with Sean in his office briefing him on what they had found and seized, the main thing being Hellier’s computer, which would be sent to the electronics lab where the boffins would interrogate the system’s innards. Maybe they could find something, but it would take time.

Sean’s phone rang. “Hello, this is DI Corrigan.”

“Front office here, sir. There’s a Mr. Templeman wants to see you.”

“Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.” Sean hung up. “Hellier’s lawyer’s here,” he informed Sally as he set off for the front office. He walked quickly along the busy corridors and skipped down the stairs, nodding to the stressed-looking civilian station officer before waving Templeman past the waiting queue of customers. Templeman wasted no time with pleasantries. “I demand immediate access to my client.”

“Of course,” Sean agreed, and guided him through a side door into the station. “I’ll take you to the custody suite. Follow me.”

“And when do you plan on interviewing my client? Soon, I hope.”

“When the Section Eighteen searches are complete and I’ve had time to assess the evidence.”

“How long, Inspector?”

“Two or three hours.”

“That’s totally unacceptable,” Templeman argued. “Clearly you’re in no position to interview my client, therefore I suggest you release him on bail until such time as you are ready. Later this week, perhaps.”

“I’m investigating a murder,” Sean reminded him, “not some Mickey Mouse fraud. Hellier stays in custody until I’m ready.”

Sean typed in the code on the security pad attached to the outside of the custody suite. When the pad gave out a high-pitched beep, he pushed the door open, immediately looking for a jailer to take Templeman off his hands.

“Murder or fraud, Inspector, everyone is entitled to a fair and vigorous defense,” Templeman continued. “And that’s what I’ll ensure my client gets.”

“Everyone except the dead,” Sean replied coldly. “Everyone except Daniel Graydon.” He grabbed a passing jailer before Templeman could reply. “This is Hellier’s attorney,” he said. “He would like to see his client as soon as possible.”

“No problem,” the jailer responded. “If you follow me, sir, I’ll sort that out for you.”

Sean was already walking away, Templeman calling after him: “I need to see any relevant statements you have. I’m entitled to primary disclosure, Inspector. I’m entitled to know what evidence you have against my client.”

“And you will,” Sean answered, already looking forward to the moment when he would reveal that Hellier’s fingerprint had been found in Daniel Graydon’s flat, but undecided as to who he was most looking forward to seeing squirm: Hellier or Templeman.

Sean bounced up the stairs and back along the corridors to the incident room, tired legs suddenly alive again. He reached the room in time to hear the volume within rising. It could mean only one thing: Donnelly’s search team was back. Sean headed for his office, passing Donnelly en route. “My office, when you’ve got a minute, Dave.”

Donnelly dumped several evidence bags on his own desk and headed straight for Sean’s office.

“What have you got?” Sean said.

“We’ve seized every bit of clothing he owns and his shoes. We’ll get that lot up to the lab tomorrow.”

“I need something now. Something for the interview. I want to charge Hellier tonight. Tomorrow at the latest.”

“Sorry, boss. No smoking gun in the house. But it’s all wrong there—he keeps his office locked all day when he’s not in there, even when he’s at home. His wife says she doesn’t know where he keeps the keys. She also says she knew nothing about the floor safe.”

“Floor safe?” Sean asked.

“The jewel in the crown. Guy’s got a floor safe in his study.”

“Plenty of rich people have got floor safes. Doesn’t mean much.”

“True, but how many keep rolls of U.S. dollars in them, with their passports? There was an address book too.”

“So he’s prepared to leave in a hurry. Who knows why? If it was a crime not to trust banks, we’d all be in jail.”

“For someone who doesn’t trust banks, he’s sure got plenty of money in them. Close to half a million, from what I could tell. God knows how much the final total will be.”

“What about the address book?” Sean asked. Often it was the smaller, less dramatic items that held the vital clues. A scrap of paper with a number written on it among pristine bank statements. An old person’s collectible in a young man’s flat. If it seemed out of place, no matter how slight, it could be the biggest lead of all.

“I just had a cursory glance. Nothing more than initials and numbers. If they’re phone numbers, then they’re definitely not local. Probably overseas. It’s not arranged alphabetically. I’ve already checked for the victim’s initials, DG. Not in there.”

“Hellier could be using codes,” Sean said. “Get every number in there up to Special Operations 11 and have them run subscribers’ checks on the lot anyway. Tell them we need names and addresses by tomorrow lunchtime at the latest.”

“I’ll ask, boss, but that’ll be tight.”

“Do it anyway. In the absence of anything else, I’ll press on and interview Hellier. Let’s see what he’s got to say about his fingerprint being in the victim’s flat.”

D
onnelly sat in on the interview, but it would be Sean who’d ask most of the questions. The interview room was barren. A wooden table, four uncomfortable chairs. The walls were dirty beige. No pictures. The room smelled of rubber flooring and stale cigarettes. A double-deck tape recorder lay on the table. Microphones were pinned to the wall.

Sean, Hellier, and Templeman sat quietly, watching Donnelly break the cellophane tape around two new audiocassettes. He put both into the recorder and slapped the machine shut.

Sean broke the silence. “When we press start, you’ll hear a buzzing sound. That’ll last about five seconds. When that noise stops, we’re recording. Do you understand?”

Templeman spoke for Hellier. “We understand, Inspector.”

Sean could feel a “No comment” interview coming his way. He nodded to Donnelly, who pressed the record button. The two tape reels began to turn together, the buzzing noise louder than anyone had expected. Even Sean felt his heart skip a beat. After a few seconds the noise stopped. There was a second of silence before he found his voice.

“This interview is being recorded. I’m Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan. The other officer present is . . .” He let Donnelly answer for himself.

“DS Dave Donnelly.”

Sean continued: “I am interviewing—could you please state your name for the tape?” Sean spoke to Hellier. Hellier looked at Templeman, who nodded that he should speak. Hellier leaned forward a little.

“James Hellier.” He leaned away.

“And the other person present is?”

Templeman knew his cue. “Jonathon Templeman. Solicitor. And I’d like to say at this point that I am here to represent James Hellier. I will advise him regarding the law and his rights. I am also here to ensure the interview is conducted fairly and to challenge any questions or behavior by the police that I deem to be inappropriate, unfair, irrelevant, or hypothetical.

“I would also like to say that against my advice”—Sean saw Templeman cast a quick glance at Hellier—“Mr. Hellier has decided he would like to answer any questions you ask.”

Sean wondered if they’d staged this little performance. Templeman’s idea, probably. Cast Hellier in the role of the victim of circumstance. The innocent man out to prove it. Whatever it was, Sean hadn’t seen it coming. He continued with the preinterview procedure.

“You have the right to consult with a legal representative or solicitor. You can consult on the phone or have one attend the police station, and this right is free. As we know, you have your solicitor, Mr. Templeman, present here anyway. Have you had sufficient time to consult with your legal representative in private?”

Templeman continued to speak for Hellier. “Yes, we have.”

“I must remind you that you’re still under caution. That means you do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so. However, it may harm your defense if you fail to mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be used in evidence. Do you understand?”

“He understands,” Templeman said.

Sean decided to break this routine. “I would like Mr. Hellier to answer for himself. I need to hear that he understands from his own mouth.”

Templeman was on the verge of protesting, but Hellier spoke. There was no feeling in his voice. “I understand, Inspector. The time has come for explanations.”

Sean’s stomach tensed. Was Hellier about to spill? Had the burden of guilt caught up with him? Few had the strength to carry their darkest secrets all the way to the grave.

Hellier and Sean locked stares. Sean spoke. “Mr. Hellier. James. Did you kill Daniel Graydon?”

S
ally entered the Intelligence Office at the Richmond police station where she was met by a uniformed constable. “Are you the DS from the SCG?” he asked unceremoniously.

“Yes. I’m DS—”

“So what is it you’re after?” the constable interrupted, apparently not interested.

“Information from your records,” Sally told him. “Back in 1996 a man called Stefan Korsakov was charged here with a serious sexual assault and fraud.”

“An unusual mix,” offered the constable.

“Yeah,” Sally answered. “Later the assault charges were dropped, but he went down for the fraud. You should have a charging photograph of him. I need to see it.”

“Back in ninety-six? You’ll be lucky if we still have a card on him. Unless he reoffended within the last five years, his old card wouldn’t have been transferred on to the new Intelligence System. It may have been shredded. We kept the more interesting ones, though. People most likely to come back and haunt us. What was the sexual assault?”

“He raped a seventeen-year-old boy in Richmond Park. Tied him up and threatened him with a knife.”

The constable scratched the side of his face. “Hmm. That’s definitely the sort of person we should have kept. I’ll have to check in the archives. What did you say this bloke’s name was?”

“Korsakov. Stefan Korsakov.”

The constable began to move alongside the metal filing cabinets, which were just big enough to hold the old intelligence cards. As he did, he spoke to himself: “K, K, K, K . . . here we are.” He stopped and opened the cabinet containing records of people whose surname began with
K
. He fingered through the files.

“Korsakov. Korsakov. Stefan Korsakov.” He pulled a thin card from the cabinet. “You’re in luck. We kept his card.” His smile soon turned to a frown. “Bloody typical.”

“Problem?” Sally asked.

“The photographs. They’re not here. Some bastard’s taken the lot.”

D
id I kill Daniel Graydon? No, Inspector, I didn’t. No matter how hard you find that to believe, it’s the truth.” Hellier’s eyes were giving nothing away. Damn, he was difficult to read.

“Why did you lie to us?” Sean asked. “You told us you were never in Daniel Graydon’s flat, which leaves me very confused as to how your fingerprint ended up on the underside of his bathroom door handle.”

Hellier sighed. “I lied to you, and that was wrong. I was foolish to do so and I can only apologize for wasting your time. I pray to God I haven’t distracted you from catching the person responsible.”

Sean didn’t believe a word.

“I have been to Daniel’s flat. I was a client of his. I’ve been so for the past four or five months.”

“And on the night he died?” Sean asked.

“No. I didn’t see him the night he was killed. I didn’t go to his flat that night. I hadn’t been to his flat for over a week.”

“You see,” Sean said, “whoever killed Daniel got into his flat without breaking in. We believe Daniel let them in. Now what sort of person would Daniel let into his flat at three in the morning? A friend, perhaps? Or maybe . . .” Sean paused a second to make sure he still held Hellier’s gaze. “ . . . a client? One who made regular visits. One he thought he could trust.”

Templeman could stay silent no longer. “These questions are totally hypothetical. If you have evidence—”