Cold Killing: A Novel (22 page)

Hellier kept his distance. He wanted time to observe the man before he approached him. A friend of Daniel Graydon. What did he know? What had Daniel told him? What did he know about Hellier? It had to be a journalist looking for a story to titillate the masses, but had he found out more than he’d bargained for? Something that could be dangerous to Hellier? Had his phone been hacked? He doubted it. When it came to hacking a phone, he could teach any half-cocked journalist or private detective a thing or two; he was pretty certain his hadn’t been. He needed to find out what they knew about him and deal with it—deal with it with extreme prejudice.

His mobile rang. The display showed
PRIVATE NUMBER CALLING
. He answered: “James Hellier.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I’m going to be late. I won’t be able to get to you until about eight. You must wait for me. It’s vital that you wait for me.”

Hellier checked his watch. It meant waiting for almost an hour. “This had better be worth it.”

“It will be,” the man said. “Please believe me. It’s more important than you can possibly imagine.”

“Who are you?” Hellier asked.

“Someone who has an interest in your current predicament. Someone who wants to help. Just be sure to wait for me.”

“I’ll be here.” Hellier didn’t attempt to disguise his annoyance. He snapped his mobile shut. It appeared he would have plenty of time to study his favorite London statue.

F
or the first time in a long while, Sean went home at a reasonable hour. Kate found it a little strange at first. She’d become accustomed to him not being there.

Sally was doing the
Crimewatch
presentation that night. Several of the team would stay on at Peckham until midnight, answering any calls from the public the appeal might bring. Sean wasn’t hopeful. He only hoped Hellier was watching. He’d briefed Sally to use Hellier’s description as that of the possible killer, just as he’d done at the press conference.

He also wanted to see the presentation on the Heather Freeman murder. DI Brown would be on the show that night, but no mention would be made of the connection. How would that affect Hellier’s behavior? He pictured Hellier laughing at their incompetence. Fine. Let him laugh.

His mobile began to ring. He groaned. Kate stared across the living room at him. “Hello. Sean Corrigan speaking.”

“Bad news, guv’nor.” It was DC Stan McGowan. “He left work at about six, but we lost him on the underground. He was definitely trying to shake us. We had no chance. Sorry.”

“Why didn’t you call earlier?” Sean asked. It was almost eight thirty now.

“We’ve been running around trying to find him. I sent a couple of boys to his home address, but he either beat them there or he hasn’t gone home yet.”

“Okay, Stan,” Sean said. “You’ve done your best. Stay with it tonight. Concentrate on the home address. Tomorrow I’ll see if I can’t get a dedicated surveillance team back.”

“Sorry,” Stan said again. Sean hung up. He wondered if he could stay awake long enough to watch
Crimewatch
.

H
ellier checked his watch. It was three minutes since he’d last checked. Ten past eight. The man had sworn he’d be there by eight. He was late. He hadn’t called. Dammit. Where was the fool? Hellier looked at his watch again.

What did the caller really want? He’d said he could help. Who could help him? Why would they want to? Were they going to try and blackmail him? That would at least be amusing. He checked his phone. No missed calls.

He wasn’t going to stand here all night. He had better things to do. He’d lost the police surveillance, but he needed to be careful. Journalists could still be a problem, even if the police weren’t. He felt excitement rising in him like an old friend. Time for a treat. He deserved one.

K
ate watched Sean struggling to stay awake in his chair. A bottle of Stella Artois rested on his chest. She watched it rise and fall gently. If he fell asleep properly, he would spill the beer. The cold liquid would wake him up quickly enough. She hoped it would happen. It would make her laugh, and Sean hadn’t made her laugh much lately.

He was losing the battle to keep his eyes open. Hearing the presenter mention a murder in South London, Kate shook Sean by the shoulder. “I think you’re on.”

“Uh?”

“You’re on,” she repeated. “It’s your case next.”

Sean sat upright. He rubbed his face hard and shook his head. “Thanks.”

He watched the presenter outline the case. It was supposed to be informative only, the media helping the police to catch a killer, but the presenter’s background gave him away. He couldn’t help using gutter-press terminology. He tried to look shocked when describing the murder as “gruesome.” He paused dramatically as he informed the nation of how Daniel had been stabbed “seventy-seven times.” The tabloid words flowed from his mouth: “Bloody . . .” “Horrific . . .” “Mutilated . . .” He had them all. In truth, there was only one reason the program existed. Ratings. The British public liked nothing better than watching other people’s suffering from a safe distance.

The camera switched to Sally. She looked a little nervous, but you couldn’t tell unless you knew her like Sean did. She was as professional as he knew she’d be. Informative, accurate, businesslike, but compassionate too.

She gave the description of Hellier as Sean had asked. He felt satisfaction at the thought of Hellier watching and listening to himself being described on national TV, but he had to remember that Hellier was like a poisonous snake. He was dangerous. It was important to keep a firm grip of his neck or risk being bitten.

The presenter tried to ambush Sally. He asked her if someone had already been arrested. If the police already had a “prime suspect.” Sally had been expecting it. Her answer sounded prepared. She told him a number of people had been helping police with the inquiry, but that they were still trying to trace the whereabouts of Steven Paramore and Jonnie Dempsey. The presenter backed off, closing the piece with the usual attempt at a heartfelt appeal for assistance. He read out the two telephone numbers that also appeared at the bottom of the screen. One for the studio and one for the incident room back in Peckham. Then he moved on to the next tragedy of the night.

CHAPTER 19

I
’ve seen her before. A couple of times. On both occasions I followed her home. She lives in Shepherd’s Bush, in a flat on the first floor of an old mansion block. The building has seen better days, by the look of it, but I suppose it’s not too bad for the area.

She works in a small advertising company in Holborn. She must be thirty or thereabouts. Reasonably attractive, but nothing special. Five foot five and strong, from the look of it, although not very fit. She does have very nice short brown hair though. The cut is unusually short for a woman.

But what really attracted me to her, what really caught my eye, was her skin. She has the most beautiful skin. Very lightly tanned. Faultless. It shone.

Did she know it set her apart? Was that why she kept her hair short, so nothing would distract from her skin? Probably.

But it wouldn’t stay that way for much longer. She worked too hard. Always last out of the office. Trying to impress her boss or maybe just trying to impress herself.

I read an article in the
Evening Standard
the other day. Apparently young London workers are judging success by the lack of free time a person has. The most successful are judged to be those who have no time for themselves.

Pitiful. How could anyone really question my right to do as I please with you? You have no value anymore. You know that yourselves. Pointless little animals, living pointless little lives. Only I can make you worth something.

When I’ve watched her in the past, she hasn’t left her office until after eight. Tonight was no different.

I thought about visiting her in the office. Leave a nasty surprise for her boss in the morning. Perhaps cut her breasts off, Jack the Ripper style, and leave them on his desk with a resignation note I’d make her write, just for the fun of it.

No. I couldn’t guarantee the level of control I’d need. I couldn’t risk being interrupted. A cleaner might walk in on me, or a fucking security guard. I would be able to deal with them easily, but the visit would be spoiled. So I decided to follow her home. Again.

She has an easy journey. Nine bearable stops along the Central line to Shepherd’s Bush. The simple route makes it easier to follow her. I could wait for her to come home—I know where she lives from my previous follows—but I enjoy the thrill of the chase. It helps me build toward my climax. Allows the excitement to grow. It courses through my veins and arteries.

My blood carries the excitement around my body like oxygen. My heart beats so hard and fast I’m sure people can see my chest pounding, hear my heart thumping like a Zulu drum. But at the same time, I know they can’t. It seeps into my muscles. Makes them contract and tense. Makes me feel strong. Invincible. I’m becoming alive again. I can see more. Hear more. Smell more.

I feel the twitching in my groin. I have to calm down and control it. It’s difficult, especially with her sitting so close. In the same carriage, only a few seats away. I think she notices my presence, but she seems unconcerned. You wouldn’t be concerned by my presence either. I read my paper, the
Guardian
.

Our stop is next. She stands first and moves to the exit door. I move to a spot a meter or so behind her. I can smell her clearly now. The scent is almost overpoweringly beautiful.

The train stops and we both step onto the platform. This is an underground station, so there’s CCTV everywhere. I make a point of stopping on the platform. I lift my foot onto one of the wooden benches screwed to the wall and make a show of tying my shoelace. If the police check the tapes at all, they’ll be looking for someone following her closely, not a businessman worrying about his shoes. Eventually I follow her, but I’m a long way back, exactly where I want to be.

She’s out of my sight as I go through the automatic barrier and into the street. I know the route she should take and pray there are no variables to contend with. If she goes into a shop or meets a friend, I may lose her. I’ll pick her up back at her flat, but the follow is important to me tonight. It is how I’ve seen it happening. It’s the beginning of making my desires reality. If any part of the sequence is changed from the way I need it to be, then there would be no point in continuing.

It’s about eight forty-five. There’s still some daylight. I move fast along Bush Green, the traffic heavy even at this hour. The green resembles some kind of stock-car racing circuit and drivers are treating it accordingly.

I walk past a group of black youths loitering menacingly outside a betting shop. I feel their eyes fall upon my expensive wristwatch. I give them a hard stare and they look away. Respect.

Unexpectedly she walks out of a small newsagent’s. I almost trip over her, swerving to avoid her. She’s seen me. Definitely. And now I’m in front of her. I want to be behind her. Following her. This is not good. I can’t stop and wait for her to pass me. I need to do something and do it right away.

I do the best thing I can think of. I walk to the first bus stop I see and pretend to be waiting for a bus. There are other people at the stop. I only hope the bus doesn’t come. She walks past me. I feel her quickly look in my direction, but she doesn’t seem panicked. She walks on. I wait a few seconds and follow her again.

I have to be a lot more careful now. She saw me outside the shop, saw me go to the bus stop. If she turns around and sees me again, she may run. She may go into the nearest shop or café. It won’t cause me a long-term problem, but it’ll destroy tonight’s plans.

I keep a reasonable distance. Ten meters or so. I’d like to be closer, but can’t risk it. I’m sure she can feel my presence, even at this distance. It’s important to me that she can. The Chinese swear that dog meat tastes all the sweeter if the dog is terrified before being butchered. I would have to agree.

I try and anticipate when she’ll look behind her and if so, which shoulder she’ll look over. It gives me the best chance of avoiding her field of vision. But she doesn’t turn her head. We’re still walking along Bush Green and there are lots of people about, which makes her feel safe.

She turns left into a side road. Rockley Road. On either side the road is lined with four- and five-story town houses, Georgian or maybe Victorian. London’s demand for housing and cheap hotels has turned the street into a mess of dirty-looking flats and run-down boardinghouses.

She turns left into a side street. Minford Gardens. This is where she lives. It’s an altogether more pleasant street. Smaller houses with trees lining the pavement, but the houses are still scruffy and split into flats. It’s much, much quieter.

I begin to walk faster. The excitement is rising to a point of explosion. I want to rage over this woman. I want to tear her to pieces. Rip her open with my nails and teeth. But I won’t. I will show my strength. My control. I’m not like others. I’ve learned to control the power I have.

I close the distance between us. Walking ever faster, but so silently the sound of the breeze drowns out any noise. There’s no sun in the road anymore. The houses have blocked its fading light. I’m so close. The streetlamps begin to flicker.

I’m close enough to touch her now. I see the hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end. She feels me. She spins on her heels and looks into the eyes of my mask. Soon she will meet the real me.

L
inda Kotler was thirty-two years old and single. She’d been in a relationship for eight years, but when she pushed for marriage he, unbelievably, got cold feet and ran away. Christ, they’d been living together for six and a half years, but apparently the mere mention of the word “marriage” suddenly made him feel “trapped.” Perhaps it was just the excuse he’d been waiting for.

She was rapidly learning what it was to be single when all your friends are couples. Eight years is a long time with someone. Her friends were his and his were hers. They thought of them as a single entity. One personality. When he left her they had been so nice, to the point of being irritating. Her married girlfriends didn’t look compassionate anymore, they looked smug. And suddenly she was single. That made her a threat to their own fragile relationships. True, she’d been guilty of a little flirting with her friends’ men, but she needed to feel desired. Now more than ever. Rejection hurts.

She’d been working late again tonight. Maybe she’d secretly been hoping someone at the office would invite her for a drink. It was a lovely evening for it, but no invitation came. Time to go home to her much-loved prison.

She checked herself in the mirror of her compact. Her hair was short enough not to have to worry about it. Her skin was as excellent as ever. Years of living with him hadn’t changed that. She was proud of her skin. She dabbed moisturizer on her fingertips and massaged it into her face. A little lipstick was all she needed. You never know who you might meet on the tube.

Holborn Station wasn’t too busy. She’d long missed the main rush hour. The platform was only sparsely populated compared to the scene two or three hours before. Rush-hour platforms scared her. She’d been brought up in a small town in Devon and the size and speed of London still intimidated her. How could those people stand so close to the edge as the trains flashed past? Was getting home a few minutes earlier really so important? They must have more to go home to than she did.

She saw him almost as soon as she slid the heavy briefcase off her shoulder. He was standing a couple of meters to her right and slightly behind her. She noticed him because she’d seen him before, about a week ago, maybe less. It happened more than people think. When you travel the same route day in, day out, eventually you start seeing the same people.

She had thought he was rather attractive. A little older than she usually went for, probably the wrong side of forty, although only just, but he clearly took care of himself. He dressed well too. She tried to catch a whiff of his cologne, but she didn’t think he was wearing any.

He didn’t look at her, but she somehow could feel he had noticed her. She couldn’t see properly, but she was pretty certain he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, just a nice wristwatch. An Omega, she thought. So he had money too. That always helped.

The train came and they ended up in the same carriage. She read the ads adorning the carriage and sneaked glances at him. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought he sneaked the odd look back. Most of the time he read his paper. The
Guardian
. So he had liberal views on the world, like her.

She wondered where he would get off the train. She guessed Notting Hill—no, Holland Park suited him better. But he didn’t.

The train approached Shepherd’s Bush. She sneaked one last glance at the man and moved to the exit. She wasn’t one of those confident types who would sit and wait for the train to stop before staking their claim at the exit. She was always afraid the doors would close too quickly and she’d miss her stop. Worse, she’d be left on the train feeling foolish. Uncomfortable stares would rest on her.

He’d stepped off the train right behind her, but she couldn’t feel him close anymore; it was as if he’d somehow faded away. He must have gone down another corridor, heading for another exit.

She wanted to be subtle. If he was somehow still behind her, she didn’t want him to see her looking for him. She took the chance to glance back as she traveled up the escalator. She couldn’t see him. If he had been heading her way, he should have been within view. He must have gone another way. The butterflies in her stomach left her. They were replaced with an empty, disappointed feeling. She preferred the fluttering wings.

By the time she’d exited the station, she’d forgotten he had ever existed. Ground level brought its own reality and he wasn’t part of it. She hurried along Bush Green. The heavy bag slowed her, the straps cutting into her shoulder, drawing attention to her. She must learn to travel lighter. She saw a group of young black men standing outside the betting shop and pulled her briefcase closer, tightening the grip on her handbag, head down and walking past them as quickly as she could. She felt their stares as surely as if they were beating her. She felt like a racist and it made her feel guilty.

She entered the small shop. It smelled like most newsagents or liquor stores in London, spicy and sweet. She liked the smell. She liked the different cultures of London. Mostly, anyway.

It took her less than a minute to buy the pack of Silk Cut Mild. She’d tried to smoke Marlboro Lights or Camel Lights, like everyone else in London. They tasted funny to her. They didn’t smell like the cigarettes adults had smoked around her when she was growing up in Devon.

As she left the shop she wasn’t looking where she was going. She almost bumped straight into him, the man from the tube. It made her stop in her tracks. He swerved around her and kept going. If he’d wanted to talk to her, he’d had the perfect opportunity. He hadn’t taken it. Maybe she had just imagined that he’d noticed her earlier? Being alone in London was beginning to get to her. She was craving the attention of strangers.

He walked in front of her now. Still along Bush Green. He stopped at a bus stop. He didn’t seem the type to be getting a bus in Shepherd’s Bush. She tried to imagine where he could possibly be going. Putney, or perhaps Barnes. If so, it was a strange route.

She passed the bus stop and kept heading west. She turned left into Rockley Road. The noise of Shepherd’s Bush Green seemed to die away instantly. Immediately she felt more relaxed. Her pace slowed, almost as if she was enjoying an evening stroll. The pain of the bag strap cutting into her shoulder reminded her she wasn’t. She considered stopping to light a cigarette, but decided to wait until she got home. Maybe she would have a glass of wine too. She was pretty sure she had an unspoiled bottle in the fridge.

The street was empty. Quiet. She could see and hear people in their homes, but the road itself was lifeless. It made it easier to sense a disturbance. She did. She was being followed, she was certain of it. Was it one of the men from outside the betting shop? If it came to it, they could have her briefcase and her handbag. Just so long as they left her alone.