Cold Killing: A Novel (18 page)
“I do.”
“Excellent.” Pulling a key from his waistcoat pocket, he unlocked the padlock then stood back for Hellier to open the box’s lid.
Hellier removed a small white envelope and another larger one. He quickly checked the contents, which included a passport for the Republic of Ireland. Satisfied, he slipped both envelopes into his pocket and closed the lid.
“Do I owe you anything?” he asked.
“No. Your account is still very much in credit, Mr. Saunders.”
Regardless, Hellier pulled five hundred pounds in new fifty-pound notes from his wallet. He placed them on the desk next to the till. “That’s to make sure it stays that way.”
The shopkeeper licked his lips. It was all he could do to not grab the cash. “Will you be returning the property today, sir?”
Hellier was already heading for the door. He answered without looking back. “Maybe. Who knows?”
With that he was gone.
The shopkeeper liked the money, but he hoped it would be the last time he saw Mr. Saunders. He was scared of Mr. Saunders—in fact, he was scared of lots of the people he kept illicit safety-deposit boxes for. But Mr. Saunders scared him the most.
S
ally drove back toward Peckham alone. It had been a long and uninteresting morning at the Records Office. Truthfully, she was beginning to feel a little left out of the main investigation and now she also had to put up with the frustration of waiting days for the results of her searches—all of which meant she had yet to eliminate Korsakov. She knew Sean wouldn’t be pleased.
Her mobile began to ring and jump around on the passenger seat. In defiance of the law, she answered it while driving. “Sally Jones speaking.”
“DS Jones, this is IDO Collins from Fingerprints. You sent a request up yesterday, asking for a set of conviction prints for Stefan Korsakov to be compared with prints found at the Graydon murder scene.”
“That’s correct,” she confirmed, excitement growing in her stomach.
“I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible,” Collins told her.
“What? Why not?”
“Because we don’t have a set of fingerprints for anyone by that name.”
“You must have,” Sally insisted. “He has a criminal conviction—his prints were taken and submitted.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Collins replied. “I’ve searched the system and they’re not here.”
The possibilities spun around in Sally’s mind. Korsakov was rapidly becoming the invisible man. First his charging photographs and now his fingerprints. Sally didn’t like what she was finding. She didn’t like it at all. She remembered what Jarratt had said: maybe Korsakov was a ghost.
IDO Collins broke into her thoughts. “Are you still there, DS Jones.”
“Yes,” she answered. “I’m still here. In fact, you know what? I think I’d better come see you.”
H
ellier hailed a black cab and directed the driver to take him to the Barclays Bank in Great Portland Street, around the corner from Oxford Circus. Tourists and shoppers jammed the pavements. Red buses and cabs jammed the roads. It was an unholy mess. Diesel fumes mixed with the smell of frying onions and cheap meat. The heat of the day kept the air heavy.
The cab drew up directly outside the bank. Hellier was out and paying before the driver knew it. He dropped a twenty-pound note through the driver’s window and walked away without speaking.
He went to an eager-looking female cashier in her early twenties. She would want to do everything by the book. So did he. He handed her the larger envelope he’d taken from the antiques shop. It was documentation of his ownership of a safety-deposit box held in the bank’s vault. “I would like access to my deposit box, please,” he told her.
“Of course,” she agreed. “Can I ask if you have any identification with you, sir?” She sounded like every other bank clerk in the world.
He smiled and pulled out a passport for the Republic of Ireland. “Will this be okay?”
She checked the name and photograph in the passport, smiled, and handed it back to him. “That’ll be fine, Mr. McGrath. If you’d like to take a seat in consultation room number two, I’ll fetch the deposit box.”
Within a few minutes the clerk came to Hellier’s room and placed the stainless-steel box on the table. “I’ll leave you alone now, sir. Just let me know when you’ve finished.” She turned on her heel and left the room, shutting the door with a reassuring thud.
Hellier pulled the smaller envelope from his jacket pocket, opened the flap, and shook the contents out onto the table—a silver key. He couldn’t help but look around him as he put the key into the lock. It was stiff, causing him to feel a stab of panic as he jiggled it, eventually turning the lock and opening the box. Slowly he lifted the lid and peered inside. The box was as he had left it. He ignored the rolls of U.S. dollars and pushed the loose diamonds out of the way, flicking a five-carat solitaire to one side as if it were a dead insect, until he found what he was looking for—a scrap of aging paper. He lifted it closer to the light and examined it, relieved to see the number was still visible after all this time. He smiled, and spent the next ten minutes committing the number to memory. He ignored the first three digits—the dialing code—but he repeated the remainder of the number over and over until he was sure he would never forget it: “9913, 2074, 9913, 2074.”
S
ean read through the files from General Registry. He’d found it difficult to concentrate at first, the logistical problems of the investigation severely hindering his free thinking, but as the office grew quieter he was able to lose himself in the files.
He’d already rejected several. They were all extremely violent crimes that remained unsolved, but they just didn’t feel right. Too many missing elements.
He picked up the next file and flipped open the cover. The first thing he saw was a crime scene photograph. He winced at the sight of a young girl, no more than sixteen, lying on a cold stone floor, her dead hands clutching her throat. He could see she was lying in a huge pool of her own blood and guessed her throat had been cut.
He leaned into the file. The photographs spoke to him. The victim spoke to him. His nostrils flared. This one, he thought to himself. This one. He flicked past the photographs and began to read.
The victim was a young runaway. Came to London from Newcastle. Parents reported her missing several days before her body was found. Neither parent considered as a suspect. No boyfriend involved. No pimp under suspicion. Her name, Heather Freeman. Body recovered from an unused building on waste ground in Dagenham. No witnesses traced.
Sean rifled through the papers to the forensics report. It was ominously short. No fingerprints, no DNA, no blood other than the victim’s. The suspect had left no trace of himself other than one thing: footprints in the dust inside the scene. They were striking only because of their lack of uniqueness. A plain-soled man’s shoe, size nine or ten, apparently very new, with minimal scarring.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered.
Sean checked the date of the murder. It predated Daniel Graydon’s death by more than a week. “You have killed before, you had to have, but how many times?” His head began to thump. He searched for the name of the investigating officer and found it: DI Ross Brown, based on the Murder Investigation Team at Old Ilford police station. He bundled together his belongings and, taking the file with him, headed for the exit. He’d phone DI Brown once he was on his way.
H
ellier walked along Great Titchfield Street, still in the heart of London’s West End shopping area, although it was a lot quieter. He soon found a phone booth and pumped three pound coins into the slot. He heard the dial tone and punched the number keypad: 020-9913-2074.
The dial tone changed to a ringing one. He waited only two cycles before it was answered. The person on the other end had clearly been expecting a call. Hellier spoke.
“Hello, old friend,” he said mockingly. “We have much to discuss.”
“I’ve been waiting for you to call,” the voice answered. “I expected it sooner.”
“Your friends took my contacts book,” Hellier told him, “and you’re not listed in the phone book or with directory inquiries. Makes you a difficult person to find.”
“The police have taken a book off you with my number in it?” The voice sounded strained. “How the hell did you let that happen?”
“Calm down.” Hellier was in control. “All the numbers in the book were coded. No one will know it’s yours.”
“They’d better not,” the voice said. “So if they’ve got the book, how did you find my number again?”
“You gave it to me, don’t you remember? When you first came begging to me. Cap in hand. You wrote it on a piece of paper. I kept it. Thought it might come in useful one day.”
“You need to get rid of it. Now,” the voice demanded.
Hellier wished he and the voice were face-to-face. He’d make him suffer for his insolence. “Listen, fucker,” he shouted into the phone. A passerby glanced at him, but quickly looked away when he saw Hellier’s eyes. “You don’t tell me what to do. You never fucking tell me what to do.
Do you understand me?
”
There was silence. Neither man spoke. It gave Hellier a few seconds to regain his composure. He pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and dabbed his shining brow. The voice broke the silence.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Get Corrigan to call his dogs off,” Hellier replied.
“I don’t think I can do that. If I could think of any way . . . But I swear I don’t have that sort of pull.” The voice was almost pleading.
“You’re a damn fool,” Hellier snapped. “Just wait for me to call you. I’ll think of something.” He hung up.
Feeling better now, he rolled his head and massaged the back of his neck. He glanced at his watch. Time was passing. He needed to get back to work.
S
ally sat in a side office at the Fingerprint Branch at New Scotland Yard. A tall slim man in his midfifties entered the room nervously. Sally stood and offered her hand. “Thanks for seeing me so quickly.”
“No problem at all,” said IDO Collins. “How can I help?”
Sally sucked in a lungful of air and began to explain herself. “This is a sensitive matter, you understand?”
“Of course,” Collins reassured her.
“On the phone you said you couldn’t find Korsakov’s fingerprints. So what I need to find out is how the fingerprints of a convicted criminal could go missing.”
Collins smiled and shook his head. “Not possible. You can’t remove files from the computer database.”
“Before that,” Sally said. “Assume they went missing from the old filing system. Possible?”
“Well, I suppose so.” Collins began to chew the side of his thumb. “But they could only go missing for a period of time.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, in the old system, officers and other agencies would sometimes ask to look at sets of prints. Mostly they would view them here at the Yard, but occasionally they would have to take them away. For example, to compare them with a person the Immigration Service had doubts about, or to compare them with a prison inmate if the Prison Service suspected funny business. Somebody trying to serve a sentence on behalf of somebody else. It does happen, you know. Usually for money, sometimes out of fear.”
“Or to get away from the wife and kids?” Sally half-joked.
“Yes. Probably. I wouldn’t know.” Collins laughed a little. He still sounded nervous. “Anyway. Prints might be taken away, but if they weren’t returned quickly, within a few days, we’d chase after them. We’d always get them back. Always. We simply wouldn’t stop pestering until they were returned. They’re too important to allow them to disappear.”
“Then perhaps you can explain how this set vanished?” Sally slid a file across the desk. “Stefan Korsakov. Convicted of fraud in 1996. He definitely had prints taken when he was charged. No mistake. Prints that you’re telling me have since disappeared.”
Collins looked shocked, but recovered quickly and smiled. “A clerical mistake. Give me a minute and I’ll search for them myself.”
She knew it made sense to double-check. “If it’ll make you feel better, then it’ll make me feel better. I’ll be in the canteen. Give me a shout when you’re finished.”
D
I Ross Brown waited at the old murder scene for Sean to arrive, the police cordon tape flapping loosely in the mild breeze, tatty and spoiled now.
It was getting late, but he didn’t mind waiting. His investigation had not been going well—stranger attacks of this type were extremely difficult to solve quickly. Unless you were out to make a name for yourself, they were every detective’s worst nightmare. And with only three years’ service remaining, DI Ross Brown wasn’t out to make a name for himself. If he thought Sean could help his case, he’d wait all night.
Sean found his way to Hornchurch Marshes and drove through the unmanned entrance to the waste ground. A single road wound its way over the desolate and oppressive land to a small outbuilding. Sean could see a tall, well-built man standing outside. He parked next to DI Brown’s car and climbed out. Brown was already moving toward him, his hand outstretched.
“Sean Corrigan. We spoke on the phone.”
Ross Brown wrapped a big hand around Sean’s. His grip was surprisingly gentle. “Good of you to come all this way out east,” he said.
“I just hope I’m not wasting your time,” Sean answered.
DI Brown pointed to the outbuilding. “She died in there. She was fifteen years old.” He looked sad. “She’d run away from home. The usual story. Mum and Dad split up, Mum gets a new man, kid won’t accept him and ends up running away to London—straight into the hands of some sick bastard.
“It’s not easy to get the homeless to talk,” he continued, “to get their trust. But a couple of her friends have provided us with details of her last movements.
“We’re pretty certain she was abducted in the King’s Cross area on the same night she was killed, about two weeks ago, give or take. We canvassed the area, but no one witnessed the abduction—our man is apparently extremely cautious and fast.
“We tried to get the media interested, but we only got minimal coverage. It’s difficult to compete with suicide bombers, and they like victims to be the nice, top-of-the-class type, not teenage runaways.
“The killer drove her to this waste ground. He took her into this abandoned building, stripped her, and then he cut her throat. One large laceration that almost cut the poor little cow’s head off.”
Sean could see Brown was disturbed. No doubt the man had teenage daughters of his own. The nearby giant car plant dominated the horizon. It all added to the feeling of dread in this place. “Poor little cow,” Brown repeated. “What the hell must she have been thinking? All alone. Made to strip. There were no signs of sexual abuse, but we can’t be sure what he did or didn’t make her do. Fucking animal.”
“The murder of Daniel Graydon occurred six days ago,” Sean said without prompting. “His head was caved in with a heavy blunt instrument, not recovered. He was also stabbed repeatedly with an ice pick or something similar, not recovered either. He was killed in his own flat in the early hours. No sign of forced entry. He was a homosexual and a prostitute.”
Brown frowned. He couldn’t see much of a connection to his investigation, if any. “Doesn’t sound like my man. Different type of victim, murder location, weapon used. I’m sorry, Sean. I don’t see any similarities here.”
“No,” Sean said, holding up a hand. “That’s not where the similarity lies.” He began to walk to the outbuilding. DI Brown followed him.
“What then?” Brown asked.
“The only usable evidence from our scene was some footprints in the hallway carpet. They were made by a man wearing a pair of plain-soled shoes with plastic bags over them. The forensics report said you recovered footprints.”
“Yes,” Brown said. “Inside the outbuilding.”
“And no other forensic evidence?” Sean asked.
“Is that why you’re here?” DI Brown asked. “Because neither of us has any forensics evidence, other than a useless shoe print?” Sean’s silence answered the question. “Then I guess we’re both in the shit,” Brown continued, “because if you’re right and these murders are connected, then this is a really bad bastard we’re after here and he’s absolutely not going to stop until someone stops him.”
Sean’s phone interrupted him before he could reply. It was Donnelly. “Dave?”
“Guv’nor, surveillance is in place at Butler and Mason, and guess who’s back?”
“He’s at work?”
“No mistake. I’ve seen him myself through the window. He’s not hiding.”
“Okay. Stay on him. I’ll call you later.” He hung up.
What the hell are you up to now? And where have you been that you didn’t want us to see?
“Problem?” Brown asked.
“No,” Sean answered. “Nothing that can’t wait.”
S
ally saw Collins enter the canteen and gave a little wave to attract his attention. He sat opposite her, carefully placing an old index book on the table.
“From a time before computers,” he told her. “I’ve double-checked both the computer system and searched manually, as well as checking the old records on microfiche. We have nothing under the name of Korsakov.”
“Which means?” Sally asked.
“Well, normally I would have said that you were mistaken. That Korsakov’s prints could never have been submitted.”
“But . . . ?”
“But I have this.” He patted the index book. “This is a record of all fingerprints that are removed from Fingerprint Branch. We still use it as a backup for our new computer records, and this way we actually get the signature of the removing party, which helps ensure their safe return. This volume goes back to ninety-nine.”
Collins went to the page showing all the fingerprints of people whose surnames began with the letter
K
that were removed that year. It was a comparatively short list. Fingerprints were rarely removed.
“Here,” he pointed. “On the fourteenth of December 1999, fingerprints belonging to one Stefan Korsakov were removed by a DC Graham Wright, from the CID at Richmond.”
“So they were here?” Sally asked.
“They must have been.”
“But this DC Wright never returned them?”
“That’s the bit I don’t understand,” said Collins, frowning. “They
were
returned. Two days later by the same detective, along with the microfiche of the prints, which he’d also booked out.”
“Then where are they?”
“I have no idea,” Collins admitted.
Sally paused for a few seconds. “Could someone have simply walked in here and taken the prints and microfiche?”
“I seriously doubt it. The office is always manned and all prints and fiches are locked away. Only someone who worked in the Fingerprint Branch would have that level of access.”
Why the hell would someone from Fingerprints want to make Korsakov’s records disappear? Had he corrupted someone there? Paid them for a little dirty work? But in 1999 he was still in prison, so how could he possibly have known whom to approach? No, Sally decided. Something else.
“When fingerprints are returned, are they checked?” she asked. “Before being accepted.”
“A quick visual check, no more,” Collins told her.
“And the microfiche?”
“No. That wouldn’t have been standard practice. So long as the fingerprints were in good order, that would have been that.”
S
ean and Brown moved into the outbuilding. There was still light outside, but inside it was dim and damp. Sean could clearly see the last remains of that horrific night: a large circular bloodstain in the middle of the floor. It was rusty brown now. The inexperienced eye would have thought it nothing. He sometimes wished his eyes could be so innocent.
The arterial spray marks went from Sean’s left to right across the room. They’d almost hit the wall over twelve feet away. The detectives moved around slowly in the gloom. The scene had long since been examined and any evidence taken away, but Sean studied it closely nonetheless. He knew nothing would have been missed, but that wasn’t why he was there. He was seeing that night through the victim’s eyes. Through the killer’s eyes.
Brown broke the silence. “We know she was on her knees when he cut her,” he said solemnly, “from the distance her blood traveled and the body’s final resting position. He pulled her head back and then slit her throat.” Brown obviously didn’t enjoy recounting their findings. “You really think these murders could be linked?”
Sean didn’t answer. He knelt down. This was how Heather last saw the world. “We have a suspect,” he announced suddenly.
“A suspect?” Brown asked.
“Yeah,” Sean said. He could feel the clouds lifting from his mind. Could see things he’d never considered before. Standing on the spot where Heather Freeman had died fired his mind, his imagination, the dark side he buried so deep. “James Hellier,” Sean continued. “Up until this point he’s been hiding from us. Hiding behind a mask of respectability. A wife and children. A career. But he’s out now. He’s showing himself to us.
“The gender of the victims doesn’t matter to him. Male, female—makes no difference. It’s not a matter of sex with Hellier. It’s about power. About victimization. The gender is coincidental. Two young and vulnerable victims. Easy targets.”
“Why’s he not bothered about leaving his footprints,” Brown asked, “if he’s so damn careful where everything else is concerned?”
“No.” Sean spoke softly. “He’s extremely concerned about footprints. He’s probably experimented with dozens of methods, maybe even hundreds, but each time he comes up with the same conclusion. No matter what he tries, no matter what shoes he wears, what surface he walks on, he nearly always leaves some type of print. Even if it’s the slightest impression in a carpet, like in Daniel Graydon’s flat.
“He knows he’ll almost certainly leave prints at his scenes, so he gives up trying not to. Instead he masks them as best he can. He wears bland shoes, probably brand-new. He changes the size of the shoes he wears. He can’t change it too much, but he tries.”
“Why doesn’t he just commit his crimes on solid surfaces?” Brown asked. “That way he wouldn’t leave an impression.”
Sean fired the answer back: “Too restrictive. He would have considered it, but discounted it. He needs to spend time with them. In their own homes or somewhere like this. Spending time with them is more important to him than leaving a shoe print. For him, the risk is worth it. And what’s he leaving us? Virtually unidentifiable, totally un-unique shoe marks. He’ll take that chance.
“He knows how we link murder scenes,” Sean continued. “We look for exact matches. Unique items. Same weapon. Same method. Same type of victim. Not ‘almosts.’ So he picks victims of different genders. Kills them in different ways and in different types of locations. Your victim he abducts, ours he already knew. He keeps it mixed up.”
Sean kept talking. “Most repeat killers work to a pattern. To leave their calling card. When they settle on a method that works for them, they stick with it. Many only kill in their own neighborhood, where everything is familiar, where they feel safe. When they attempt to disguise their work, then you know you’re dealing with a killer whose primary instinct is not to get caught.”
“And your suspect fits this profile?” Brown asked.
“He paid for violent sex—been doing so for years, no doubt. That probably kept his urges, his impulses suppressed for a while, but ultimately it wasn’t enough. He would have seen your victim. Fantasized about her. It’s more than he can bear. He plans it thoroughly. He’s extremely careful. He finds the planning thrilling, so he takes his time. Finally he grabs her. He uses a big car, or better still, a van. He probably steals one or maybe rents one.
“He brings her out here. He’d have been here, no more than a day or so previously. He wants his intelligence to be up to date. He brings her inside . . .” Sean broke off and turned to Brown. “How much did she weigh?”
Brown stuttered, taken aback by the unexpected question. “I don’t know,” he said with a shrug.
“Was she big? Small?” Sean pressed him.
“She was small,” Brown answered. “I went to the autopsy. She was tiny.”
“Then he carried her in,” Sean said. “It was quicker and quieter than dragging her.” He snapped another question at Brown: “Was she tied or taped in any way?”
“We believe she was taped,” Brown replied. “There were traces of adhesive across her mouth, ankles, wrists, and around her knees. The adhesive matches a common brand of masking tape. Nothing rare.”
“Once inside, he dumps her on the ground,” Sean continued. “He wants her untied, but he’s worried she’ll fight or scream. So how does he stop that happening?” He looked at Brown.
“He would have threatened her,” Brown answered.
“Absolutely. He would have threatened her,” Sean repeated. “He would have almost certainly shown her the knife that he eventually used to kill her. Any defensive marks on the girl?”
“No.”
“Then he told her he wasn’t going to hurt her and she believed him. She did as she was told. If she’d thought he intended to kill her, she would have fought him or tried to run. She agrees to do what he tells her, so he removes the tape from her mouth and limbs . . . But why is that important to him? She wasn’t raped, so he could have left the tape around her ankles and knees. Why risk taking the tape away?”
Sean’s vivid narration stalled, as if someone had drawn a curtain across the window he’d been looking through. He moved around the room, staring at the floor. He moved like an animal locked in a cage. It was minutes before he spoke again.
“He had to remove the tape because it was spoiling it for him. It was necessary when she was first abducted, but now it was spoiling his imagery. He’d imagined her in a certain way for so long, imagined her dying in a certain way, that he couldn’t settle for less. He needed to make life imitate his fantasy. So he makes her take her clothes off. All of them. He doesn’t even let her keep her underwear or a T-shirt on. He’s totally without mercy. Totally without compassion for her—but this is all for our benefit. He wants us to think there’s a sexual motivation for the killing, but there isn’t. He enjoyed the power he held over her, of course—and making her undress was a strong show of his power. But it was purely for us. To stop us linking him to other murders.” He paused for a few seconds, allowing his imagination to again become the killer’s memory. “He makes her kneel down and tells her to perform oral sex on him, but he was never going to allow that to happen, never going to let her get that near him. He was never going to risk leaving forensic evidence. So he grabs her by the scruff of the neck and cuts her once across the throat. He’s strong and fast. The knife is very sharp; again, probably brand-new. One hit is all it takes. What time was she killed?”