Cold Killing: A Novel (21 page)

Security was expectedly tight at the NCIS building. Sally buzzed the video intercom and waited. A soulless male voice eventually answered.

“State your business, please.”

“DS Jones, Serious Crime Group. Here to see DS Graham Wright. I believe he works in Counterfeit Currency.” She held her identification up to the camera. The door was opened after a slight delay. She walked to the reception desk. The security guard was already waiting for her. He gave her a visitor’s name tag and directions to the Counterfeit Currency section. She nodded thanks and moved toward the lift.

When she reached the office, she found DS Wright sitting at his desk. He was a fit-looking man in his early forties. His dark hair was matched by clear olive skin. She found him attractive. “DS Graham Wright?” she asked.

He glanced up from his desk. “Yes. That’s me.”

“I’m DS Sally Jones, from SCG.” She felt Wright’s eyes scan her from head to toes and back.

“And what can I do for you, DS Jones?”

“Please,” she told him. “Call me Sally.”

“Well, Sally?”

“Fingerprints,” she said. “Missing fingerprints.” She studied him for a reaction. Maybe a hint of confusion, but nothing more. “Back in ninety-nine, you took a set of fingerprints out of the Yard.”

“Ninety-nine?” Wright protested. “I don’t think I’ll be able to remember back that far. Whose prints were they?”

“Stefan Korsakov’s,” she answered. Wright flushed a little. She noticed it. “You remember?”

“Sure,” he replied. “I remember.”

“How come? It was a long time ago.”

“Because I helped put the bastard away. If you’re here to tell me he’s dead, then you’ll make me a happy man.”

“Maybe he is,” said Sally. “We’re trying to find that out. But for now, you remember taking the prints out of the Yard?”

“Yeah. And I remember taking them back just as clearly.”

Sally picked up the speed of the questions. “Why did you pull them out in the first place?”

“I was doing someone a favor. The prints weren’t for me.”

“Who were they for?”

“Paul Jarratt. He was a DS at Richmond at the time. I was still a DC. We worked the Korsakov case together. He asked me to pull the prints, so I did.”

“Did he say why he wanted them?”

“I can’t remember. Maybe he said the Prison Service had asked for them, but I’m not sure. All I know is that if someone has lost his prints, it wasn’t me. If you want to know why DS Jarratt needed the prints, then perhaps you should ask him.”

“You know what?” Sally told him. “I think I’ll do exactly that.”

T
he phone was ringing on Hellier’s desk as he entered his office. He closed the door before answering.

“Hello. James Hellier speaking.”

“Mr. Hellier,” the voice on the other end began. “I hope you don’t mind me calling you at work. It was the only way I could think of contacting you.”

The voice belonged to a man. He sounded mature, in his forties perhaps. He spoke quite well. Hellier could hear no trace of an accent. He didn’t recognize the voice, but suspected it was being artificially disguised. It sounded concerned. He could sense no harmful intent, but was as cautious as ever.

“You’re not a journalist, are you?” Hellier barked the question. “Because if you are, I’ll find out whom you work for and by this evening you’ll be looking for a new job that you won’t find.”

“No. No.” The man’s voice was slightly pleading. Hellier still sensed no threat.

“Then who are you?”

“A friend,” the man answered. “A friend who knew Daniel Graydon. And now . . . now I’d like to become your friend. A friend who can help you.”

Hellier said nothing.

“Listen to these instructions. Follow them exactly if you want to meet me, but be careful. Your enemies are everywhere.”

Hellier listened hard to the instructions, memorizing every detail. When the voice had finished, the phone line went dead. Hellier sat in silence with the phone pressed to his ear. His new
friend
had to be a journalist. He wouldn’t put it past Corrigan to have put the vermin on to him in the first place, trying to panic him into making a mistake, but it wouldn’t work. He knew how to deal with journalists and he knew how to deal with Corrigan. After a minute or two he was brought back to the world by a knock at his door.

“Come in,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. The door opened as Sebastian Gibran let himself in and pulled a chair close to Hellier’s desk. Hellier found himself leaning back, as far away from Gibran as he could get.

“Thought I’d see how you were. See how things were going with the police. Make sure you were okay. Nothing getting on top of you too much?”

“I’m fine, thank you, Sebastian. Despite everything, I seem to be bearing up.” Hellier found it harder than usual to play the corporate game. The voice on the telephone had been an unwelcome complication.

“Good. I knew it would take more than jealous allegations to upset a man like you.”

“Jealous allegations?”

“Of course. People will always be jealous of people like us. They want what we have, but they’re never going to have it. It’s not just wealth, it’s everything. They can win their millions in the lottery as much as they like, but they’ll never be like us. Never walk among other men as we can, safe in the comfort of our own superiority. It’s our right. You do understand, don’t you, James?”

“A king will always be a king. A peasant will always be a peasant.”

“Exactly.” Gibran beamed. “That’s why I brought you to this firm in the first place, James, because I knew you had what it takes. When I first spoke to you at that conference all those years ago, I knew. I’d met hundreds of financial superstars that week, but I knew you were different. I knew you belonged here at Butler and Mason—and I made damn certain I got you.”

“I’m forever grateful,” Hellier managed, but he was a little disturbed by this side of Gibran he’d never seen before—the perfect corporate manager and visionary seemingly replaced by a more arrogant, self-serving elitist. Was he finally meeting the real Sebastian Gibran—or was Gibran trying to trick him into lowering his guard, looking for a reason to move him on to pastures far less green?

“Any gratitude owed has already been repaid,” Gibran told him. You know, James, none of us are immune from making mistakes. The very nature of our business is risk oriented. We accept that people will make bad decisions from time to time. Those decisions will sometimes cost us a great deal of money, but we accept it.”

Hellier listened, trying to predict the moment when the conversation would become specific to him.

“But other mistakes, errors of judgment not related to work, are less tolerated. The people who own Butler and Mason like to portray a very particular image: they like their employees to be married, settled, and they encourage people to have children by creating a pay structure that rewards a family life. The image of this company has emerged by design, not accident, and they guard it jealously. If an employee has elements in their life that do not fit easily with our company ethos, then they would be expected to bury those”—Gibran searched for an appropriate word—“those habits, where they would never be seen. If they failed to do so, then their position here might not be tenable. If someone was to draw unwanted attention to our business, even if it was by accident, even if it was later shown not to be that person’s fault, the company would nevertheless expect that person to bring that situation to a swift conclusion. We’re all clear on that philosophy, aren’t we, James?”

“I understand perfectly,” Hellier answered.

“Listen,” Gibran said, his voice and tone suddenly sounding more like the man Hellier recognized. “That was the corporate line—make of it what you will. This is from me: watch your back. I can protect you only so much. I like you, James. You’re a good man. Tread carefully, my friend.”

Hellier watched him for a while before answering. “I will. Thank you.”

“As Nietzsche said, ‘Not mankind, but Superman is the goal . . . My desire is to bring forth creatures which stand sublimely above the whole species.’ That is what we are expected to be, James. The failings of normal men are not a luxury we’re allowed.”

“ ‘To live beyond good and evil,’ ” Hellier said, continuing the quote from Nietzsche.

Gibran leaned slowly forward. “I knew we understood each other. You see, James, it’s our imaginations that truly set us apart. Without them, we’d be just like all those other sad fools wandering around soulless, aimless, pointless. Only fit to be ruled over by those fit to rule. That may sound arrogant, but it’s not. It’s reality. It’s the truth.”

S
ean entered the press conference room at New Scotland Yard. He walked behind Superintendent Featherstone, who would head the conference. Sean was only there to deal with specifics, not the general presentation.

Other than the TV people there were about a dozen journalists there. A lot less than there would be for a celebrity or child murder, but more than there would have been for a run-of-the-mill killing. Most of them had been following the case since Hellier’s initial arrest, when Donnelly had leaked it to a contact in the media.

Featherstone introduced them and outlined the details of Daniel Graydon’s murder. He began to tell the journalists what the police wanted from the public. Sally would repeat it later that night on
Crimewatch
.

“We’re appealing to anyone who may have seen Daniel meet someone outside the Utopia nightclub that night. Perhaps a cabdriver who took Daniel home. A friend or acquaintance who maybe gave him a lift,” Featherstone explained.

“We are also interested in anyone who may have heard or seen something later that night, close to Daniel’s flat in New Cross. Did anyone see a man acting strangely in the area? Again, maybe the man responsible for this terrible crime used a cab to leave the area. Can anyone remember picking up a passenger in the early hours? Someone who aroused their suspicions?”

Sean listened absentmindedly. Featherstone was doing a professional job, sticking to the script, but there was one thing the two of them hadn’t discussed ahead of the conference. A question from a journalist almost made Sean jump. “Do you have a description of the suspect?”

Featherstone was about to answer no when Sean jumped in.

“Yes,” he said. It was the first time he’d spoken. Featherstone was surprised. His mouth hung open a little.

“What’s the description?” the journalist asked.

“We believe we’re looking for a white male, in his forties. He’s slim, fair haired, and smart in appearance.” Sean was describing Hellier.

“Where has this description come from?” asked another journalist.

“I can’t tell you that at this stage,” Sean answered.

The journalists’ excitement grew. “Detective Inspector . . .” The female journalist raised her voice above the increasing noise and competition for answers. “Inspector.” She caught Sean’s eye. “Have you just described James Hellier, Inspector?”

“No comment,” Sean answered.

Another journalist pursued the question. “Is Mr. Hellier no longer a suspect in this murder, Inspector?”

“For legal reasons, I can’t answer that.”

“Why was Mr. Hellier not charged?” another asked.

“This is an ongoing investigation, which means I can’t answer that at this time.”

“Is Mr. Hellier a witness in this case?”

The journalists had revealed why they were there. Hellier was the story. Sean had known it from the beginning. He could feel that Featherstone wanted to get the conference back on track, which was fine by Sean. It had served its purpose. Hellier would hear about it and read between the lines. The pressure would be back on. It was revenge for Hellier embarrassing the surveillance operation. For trying to cause a split in the team. A piece on the chessboard had been moved and Hellier would have to respond. Another question came from the floor.

“Was Mr. Hellier having sexual relations with the victim?”

“I think Detective Superintendent Featherstone will be best placed to answer your questions.” He leaned back into his chair, signifying that his involvement in the conference was over.

“Superintendent,” a journalist asked, “is James Hellier a suspect in this murder inquiry or not?”

Featherstone answered without hesitation, the media training paying off. “At this point Mr. Hellier is helping us with our inquiries. I can’t reveal any more details than that until sometime in the future, but I can assure you that it is my intention to conduct as open an investigation into the death of Daniel Graydon as possible, and of course the media will be kept informed. As I was about to say, we would also like the public’s help in tracing two other men that we need to speak to.”

Sean wasn’t listening anymore and didn’t hear Featherstone giving the media the names of Steven Paramore and Jonnie Dempsey. The journalists were once again directing their questions to Featherstone, who dealt with them as beautifully as a conductor would his orchestra. Featherstone presented the user-friendly face of the police service. The clean shirt over an unwashed body. Sean sat quietly chewing the inside of his mouth, waiting for the show to come to a natural end, thinking of Hellier. Seeing him kneeling next to Daniel Graydon, pushing the ice pick through his skin. Standing over Heather Freeman as he swept the knife across her stretched throat.

H
ellier had followed the instructions given on the phone exactly. He’d left work at 6
P.M.
and walked out the front door in full view of the surveillance team. He hailed the first cab he saw and told the driver to take him to Victoria train station. Once there, he descended into the underground system, moving through the labyrinth of tunnels on foot, boarding trains traveling in one direction, then unexpectedly disembarking and doubling back, making it almost impossible to follow him.

An hour later he stood in Hyde Park looking up at the statue of Achilles. Large trees provided good cover. He could see the bandstand in the park, about thirty meters away. The man on the phone had said he would be there at seven thirty. He would be carrying a small blue Reebok knapsack and wearing a yellow shirt.