Cold Killing: A Novel (17 page)
Gibran’s eyes suddenly looked through the crowd and came to rest on Hellier, who felt them burning into his skin, as if Gibran were publically branding him a liability. Hellier resisted the temptation to smile: Gibran might think he was smart, but he’d just showed Hellier his hand. No matter what happened next, Hellier would be ready for him. When the time came, he would be ready.
I
had to wait so very long before finding him. I searched and searched for years, then finally, it was he who found me. He simply walked into my life one day. Surely he had been sent to me, a gift from Nature herself.
His eyes betrayed him. Immediately I knew he and I were alike. We were the same animal. There was no mistake. He had hidden his nature well; his facade of normality would deceive anybody. Anybody but me, that is. But when he looked at me he saw nothing. I could see the contempt he had for me, the same as he had for everybody else. My disguise hid me even from my own kind. Now all I had to do was wait a little while longer. A year or two. Then I could begin.
My favorite film is
West Side Story
. Why? Because of the violence. It’s pure and total violence. The dancing is violent. The music is violent. The scenery is violent, so is the red sun that washes over the city in every scene. The film’s a statement about the dominance of violence over every other aspect of life. Romeo and Juliet. Violence defeats love. Violence is the only truth.
I understand this. You do not. You hide from violence. Cower in its presence. You damn it as the scourge of modern life. Punish your youth for being violent. Try to ban it from your television. Try to stop it at your football matches. Your government spends billions of pounds every year trying to remove violence from society.
But violence is life. Without violence there would be no life. Violence is the driving force that is life. It represents the ultimate beauty of life.
Evolution is violent. Species evolve through violent competition. The strong kill the weak and so the species develops. Without violence we would still be living in trees. No. Less than that. We would still be single-celled organisms. And yet you treat violence as your enemy, when it is your greatest ally.
I understand violence. I embrace it. I harness it. Through violence I am evolving into something beyond imagination.
Tuesday
E
arly morning and Sean was already at his desk. The office was growing increasingly active as the detectives drifted into work. A knock at his open door made him glance up. Superintendent Featherstone waited to be invited in.
“Boss,” Sean acknowledged. “How’s it going?”
Featherstone held two coffees in to-go cups. He placed one in front of Sean then sat down. “Never known a DI turn down a free coffee.”
“Thanks,” said Sean. As he lifted the drink, he realized why Featherstone was there. Sean hadn’t consulted with him prior to arresting Hellier. Technically, he should have. “While you’re here, there are a few things I need to update you on.”
“You don’t say,” Featherstone said. “Such as the arrest of a suspect, maybe?”
“Among other things . . .”
“An arrest I learned about from the television.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sean. “That shouldn’t have happened, and it won’t happen again.”
“I know things can get a bit manic at times,” Featherstone said, “but I’m here to keep those that would otherwise interfere off your back so you can do what you have to do. I can’t do that if I don’t know what’s going on. In future, make a quick call. Okay?”
“Of course,” Sean agreed. Featherstone was as good a senior officer as Sean could hope for and he knew it. He needed to keep him on his side.
“This James Hellier character,” Featherstone asked. “You sure he’s our man?”
“As sure as I can be, but that means nothing without some usable evidence.”
“If there’s evidence to find, then you’ll find it. Whatever course of action you decide to take will get my backing.”
“Appreciated.”
Featherstone stood to leave. “By the way, this Hellier—he sounds like the sort of man who may have connections, if you understand my meaning.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, guv. Before you go, are you still able to front a media appeal for me?”
“You should do it yourself,” Featherstone answered. “It would do you no harm to increase your public profile. If you ever want to be a chief inspector it’s the sort of bollocks they love to see on your CV.”
“Not really my thing,” Sean demurred.
“Your call. So, what do you have in mind?”
“I think it’s time we did a press conference. I’ll arrange it and let you know where and when.”
“I’ll be there,” Featherstone replied without enthusiasm. “We’ll speak soon.”
H
ellier listened to Sebastian Gibran drone on from the other side of an obscenely wide oak desk, flanked by two old men rarely seen in the office. He assumed they were two of the owners of Butler and Mason, about whom little was known, even among the employees. They had olive skin and spoke only passable English. Hellier thought they looked old and weak.
“It’s important for you to understand, James,” Gibran urged, “that we fully support you in what must be a very difficult time for you and your family, and I speak for the entire firm when I say none of us believes these ridiculous allegations.”
Hellier was almost caught daydreaming. He realized just in time he was expected to answer. “Yes, of course, and thank you for your support. It really means a lot to my family and me.” He sounded suitably genuine.
“James,” Gibran insisted, “you have been one of our most valuable employees since you joined us. You needn’t thank us for supporting you now.”
Sanctimonious bastard. One of their most valuable employees—I’ve made these fuckers millions. And they never cared how the money was earned either, so long as it kept rolling in. Support me during these difficult times. What fucking choice do you fools have? You need me a hell of a lot more than I need you.
“
Well, all the same, I’m very much indebted to you. To you all,” Hellier lied. “I feel very much a part of the family here and would hate for that to change.”
“So would I,” said Gibran, although his tone and expression were less than reassuring. “But incidents such as your late arrival at what is possibly the most important annual event in our diary will not go unnoticed. I’m sure you understand.”
“I understand,” Hellier lied. “And I apologize for being late, unreservedly. Once this whole mess with the police is cleared up, I’ll be able once again to give a hundred percent to this firm.”
“Good,” said Gibran. “Because not only are you important to the company, you’re important to me personally, James, as a valued friend.”
S
ally had been at the Public Records Office all morning. She was bored and frustrated. The clerk helping her search for records relating to Stefan Korsakov seemed bored too. He was no more than twenty-five and still had traces of acne. He wasn’t impressed with Sally’s credentials. Sally didn’t know his name. He hadn’t told her.
These days the bulk of the records were on computer, with only the clerk having access to the system. That was fine with Sally, so long as she didn’t have to wait much longer among the millions of old paper records stacked from floor to ceiling in the dark, cavernous building.
She heard footsteps approaching along the corridors of shelving and she was relieved to see the clerk return holding a piece of paper, but he wasn’t smiling.
“I’ve found the person you’re interested in. Stefan Korsakov, born in Twickenham, Middlesex, on the twelfth of November 1971.” He put the paper on a desk and smoothed it out for Sally to see. “Stefan Korsakov’s birth certificate,” he announced. “This is the person you’re interested in?”
“Yes,” Sally answered. “I was beginning to think I’d imagined him.”
“Excuse me?” the clerk asked.
“Never mind. Don’t worry about me.”
“Really.” The clerk sounded bored again.
“Is he still alive?” She looked up at the clerk. “If he’s dead, I need to see his death certificate.”
“Do you know where he might have died?”
“Not a clue,” Sally answered honestly. “Does that help?”
“I take it you want me to do a national search?”
“Sorry. Yes.” Sally sensed the clerk’s annoyance rising.
“That’ll take days. Maybe weeks. I’ll have to send out a circular to the other offices around the country. All I can do is wait for them to get back to me.”
“Fine.” Sally pulled a business card from her handbag and gave it to him. “Here’s my card. My mobile number is on there. Call me as soon as you know. Anytime. Day or night.”
“Will there be anything else?”
“No.” The word was barely out before Sally changed her mind. “Actually, you know what, while I’m here there is one more thing I’d like you to check for.”
“Such as?”
“I’d like you to find birth and death certificates, if they exist, for this man.” She wrote a name and date of birth on some paper and handed it to the clerk.
He read the name. “James Hellier. It’ll be done,” he said. “But—”
Sally finished for him. “It’ll take time. Yes, I know.”
H
ellier made his excuses and left the office shortly after his meeting with Gibran. No one had questioned why or where he was going. He knew no one would.
The police still had his address book. They hadn’t let him take a photocopy of it either. His solicitor was working on recovering it, or at least getting a copy. No matter. If DI Corrigan wanted to be a tough fucker, then that was fine. He had contingency plans.
He had no sense of being watched this morning. Strange. Maybe his instincts were jaded. He was tired. Yesterday had been a long day, even for him. Maybe Corrigan had accepted what he said in the interview as the truth, but he doubted it. So where were they, dug in deep or simply not there?
He walked along Knightsbridge, past Harvey Nichols toward Harrods, turning left into Sloane Street, walking fast toward the south. Suddenly he ran across the road dodging cars driven by irate drivers. A black-cab driver blasted his horn and shouted an obscenity in a thick East End accent.
He ran at a fast jog along Pont Street, like a businessman late for a meeting, hardly noticed by the people he ran past. He turned right into Hans Place and jogged around the square.
On the corner with Lennox Gardens was a small delicatessen. Hellier went in and asked for a quarter kilo of Tuscan salami; while being served, he examined the other two customers in the shop. He could tell instantly they weren’t police. As the shopkeeper wrapped the meat, he suddenly ran from the shop at full speed. The shopkeeper shouted after him, but Hellier didn’t stop. After about a hundred and fifty meters he slowed and walked into the middle of the street, standing on the white lines, the traffic sweeping on either side of him. He studied the entire area around him, each pedestrian, every car and motorbike, but nobody caught his eye uncomfortably. Nobody checked themselves as they walked. No car swerved away into a side street.
He wasn’t being followed, he was convinced of it. And even if they had been following him, he’d lost them. They’d underestimated him, assumed he wasn’t aware of surveillance and countersurveillance, and now they’d paid the price. But he knew next time they would be more aware. More difficult to shake off.
S
ean studied Dr. Canning’s postmortem report. Some detectives found it easier to look at photographs rather than spend time at the scene. He realized the value of having everything logged photographically, but preferred to be confronted with the real thing rather than these cold, cruel pictures. At the scenes he felt something for the victims: sorrow and regret—sadness. But when he studied the photographs they felt almost more real than the scenes themselves—the stark coldness of what they depicted and the harshness of the colors somehow even more unnerving than the actual scenes.
The report was excellent, as usual. Dr. Canning had missed nothing. Every injury, old and new, had been observed, examined, and described. Sean was totally engrossed. Finally he noticed DC Zukov loitering at his door.
“What is it, Paulo?” he asked.
“This little lot just arrived in dispatch for you, guv.” He held up several dozen paper files.
“Stick them down here.” DC Zukov dropped them onto Sean’s desk and retreated. They were the files from General Registry he’d asked for. Each held details of a violent death. These weren’t like the files Sally had studied at Method Index that concentrated on unique and uncommon crimes. These were case files of daily horrors. Young men stabbed to death outside pubs. Children tortured to death by their own parents. Prostitutes beaten to death by their pimps. The cases in front of him all involved excessive use of violence, but would they contain some detail that would leap out at him? Would one reek of the killer he hunted? Of Hellier?
He was about to begin studying the first of many when Donnelly burst in. “Bad news, guv’nor. Hellier’s lost the surveillance.”
“What?” Sean couldn’t believe what he was being told.
“Sorry, boss.”
“Tell them to get back and cover his office and home. He’ll turn up eventually, and they can pick him up again.”
“Not that simple, I’m afraid,” Donnelly said wearily. “All the surveillance teams have been pulled away on an antiterrorist op. Sign of the times, eh?”
“Give me some good news, Dave. What about the lab? Any news?”
“All samples taken from the victim and his flat have been matched to people who admit to having sexual relations with him, but the lab found no blood on any of those individuals or their clothes. Only Hellier is anything like a genuine suspect. In short, the lab can’t help us. They still haven’t processed Hellier’s clothes, but I won’t be holding my breath.”
“Fingerprints?” Sean asked.
“Spoke with them this morning. There’re three sets of prints they can’t match to anyone. All the others came back to the same people who’d left body samples there.”
“What about these three unmatched sets? Do they come back to anyone with convictions?”
“No. They’re no good to us unless we come up with other suspects we can match them to.”
“Bollocks. Okay, we cover Hellier ourselves. Who have we got that’s surveillance trained?”
“I am,” Donnelly said. “And I think a couple of the DCs are, Jim, and maybe Frank.”
“Good,” Sean said, in spite of the fact it was anything but. “We’ll split into two teams and do a twelve-hour shift each. Dave, you lead Team One and get Jim and Frank to run the other.”
“Hold on a minute, guv’nor,” Donnelly argued. “We’re talking about two teams of what, maybe five people. Almost none of whom are surveillance trained. We’d be wasting our fucking time—and I haven’t even mentioned the fact he’s seen more than half the team when he got arrested.”
“That’s why I won’t be with you,” Sean said. “I’m gambling that he was concentrating on me when he was arrested. You need to exercise special care too. I doubt he’s forgotten what you look like. No offense.”
“None taken,” Donnelly replied. “But this is still little better than hopeless.”
“We’ve got no choice.” Sean sounded desperate. He was. “So let’s get on with it. Take whatever cars and radios you need. Apologize to the troops for me. I’ll speak to them myself later.”
“Fine,” Donnelly said.
Sean could hear the dissatisfaction in the DS’s voice. He understood it, even if there was nothing he could do to quell it. They had to try something. What else could he do?
H
ellier arrived at the antiques shop in the Cromwell Road at about 1
P.M.
The shopkeeper recognized him immediately.
“Mr. Saunders. It’s been a while,” he greeted Hellier. “And how has life been treating you lately, sir?”
“Fine,” Hellier said without smiling. “I need to make a collection. I trust it’s safe.”
“Of course, sir.”
The shopkeeper disappeared into the back.
Hellier wandered slowly around the empty shop. He ran his trailing hand across the fine wooden furniture. He stopped to lift and examine several china pieces. Their value alone would have stopped most people from touching them. Hellier handled them as if they were Tupperware. He breathed in the scent of the shop. Leather, wood, riches, and age. He deserved it all.
The shopkeeper reappeared carrying a metal safety-deposit box. “Do you confirm that your property is kept in box number twelve, Mr. Saunders?”