Cold Killing: A Novel (24 page)

Last but not least, I put on a pair of flat rubber-soled shoes, bought a week ago from Tesco. I’ve never worn any of the items before. I hid them in the tiny parking garage at work until I needed them, in one of the ventilation shafts.

The shoes have little grip so I use my upper-body strength alone to pull myself up the drainpipe. I’ll let my legs dangle. If I start to use them to climb, I run the risk of making too many scuff marks on the wall. I’d rather keep the police guessing as to how I got in for a while, although ultimately I want them to work it out.

I make certain the knapsack is secure over my left shoulder, hanging so the bag is to my front. I begin to climb. I keep my legs crossed at the ankles, to help resist the temptation to use them to help. The leather gloves give me a good grip as I pull myself up. It’s not too difficult and I keep enough control to make the climb fast and silent.

The ledge of the bathroom window is narrow and rotting, but I can rest a knee on it safely enough. I hold on to the drainpipe with my right hand and slip the other into the bag. I pull out a small metal ruler, the type favored by architects and surveyors. I work it into the gap between the upper and lower panes and begin to work the latch.

It takes a few minutes to do it quietly. Millimeter by millimeter I rotate the catch. My right arm is burning with the effort of holding on to the drainpipe and my knee is growing sore. It’ll be bruised for sure. That’s unfortunate.

Once the catch is open, I put my left hand flat against the bottom pane and push the window in gently. I can feel it is a little loose in its fitting. It’ll make a noise if I’m not extremely careful and patient.

I pinch the protruding wooden frame and carefully apply upward pressure. At first nothing happens. The window is stiff. I ease on more force. It slides upward too much and makes a noise. Damn it to hell. I freeze flat against the wall, clinging to the drainpipe like a lizard. I listen hard. I wait like that for at least a minute. It seems an hour. I’m glad I’ve been exercising as much as I have.

Nothing stirs. I slip my left hand under the window’s base. I’ll be able to apply more even upward pressure now. I’m past the worst, though I still take my time.

When the window’s open fully I throw my left leg through, then my left arm. I have to contort to get my head and upper body through. My right leg and arm trail after me through the window like smoke seeping through a gap under a door.

As soon as I enter the flat, I can smell her. Every room will smell like her, I know it. The bedroom will be the strongest odor of all.

It’s dark in the bathroom, but my eyes are already used to it. I can see I’m standing in her bath. The chrome taps are on my right, shining in the dark. I have little interest in the bathroom. Too many other smells that mask her scent. I can see that the door is closed. Unfortunate. More risk of noise. It’s only midnight. She may not be asleep yet. Noise is my enemy now. Sometimes it is my ally.

I move stealthily across the small bathroom. I exaggerate my movements. I look like a ballet dancer performing an animalistic dance, my muscles tensing together. I wish I could be naked to feel her presence against my skin, but I can’t take that risk. I remain sealed in my forensic cocoon. I turn the handle on the bathroom door. It’s in good order and makes no noise. I inch the door open, patiently, controlled. As the door opens to the rest of the flat, the smell of her rushes through the gap. I inhale deeply, almost too deeply. I feel a little dizzy. My blood flows so quickly I can feel my temples thumping. A drop of sweat is cool in the cleft of my upper lip. I wipe it away. I won’t leave any of me here. Not even a drop of sweat.

My erection is growing fast, but I won’t rush. There are things to prepare. I move along the corridor, away from her bedroom. The entire flat is in darkness. No flickering of a TV screen. No noise at all.

I enter the living room. It’s too dark to make out details, but it looks fairly cluttered. Too much furniture. Too many cheap prints on the walls. Too many ornaments. I stand in the middle of the room, away from the windows, relishing being here alone. What was hers is now mine. This will be the best yet. I’ve learned so much. I’ll take my time, and when I’m finished her very being will be mine.

After almost half an hour I move to the kitchen and silently search through the cupboards and drawers until I find what I need. A knife. It’s not very new or sharp, but it’s a nice intimidating shape. Slightly curved blade and a metal handle. It’ll do.

I go back to the corridor and begin to walk toward her bedroom. The corridor is much darker than the room ahead. The streetlights don’t penetrate this far into the flat. The warm glowing yellow light of the bedroom draws me like a moth. I move so very slowly. This is perfection. Exactly how I’ve seen it. Each step is choreographed. How I wish I could be naked. My penis is so hard I fear I may reach orgasm before even getting to the bedroom, but I will not rush this.

I reach the open bedroom door. I begin to push it slowly open with my left arm. It swings gently aside. I can see her. Lying in her bed.

I cross the bedroom. She hasn’t closed the blinds properly. The streetlights cast a long shadow of me as I walk toward her.

I reach her and stand by the bed. She hasn’t sensed me yet. I watch her breathing. Her skin looks metallic in the dark. Like the black-gray metal of a gun. Her chest rises and falls gently, but I can tell she is not yet in a deep sleep. I am surprised she hasn’t woken. I stand and wait.

She turns onto her back and stops. Her eyes begin to open. She sees me and blinks a couple of times. She seems to recognize me. Her mouth is open in surprise, but she doesn’t scream or speak. The surprise is overwhelming her.

She becomes fully awake. I see the fear spread across her face. I smash my right fist into it. She begins to turn before the impact and the blow hits her full in her left cheek. I think I feel the bone break. She makes a funny little noise.

Before she regains her senses, I grab her around the throat with my left hand and lift her upward and backward with one arm. I crash the back of her head into the wall and let her fall, unconscious, back onto the bed. I watch her for a few seconds. She’s still alive. Good.

H
er mind woke a split second before the rest of her body. When the body caught up, her eyes fired open.
Jesus, God please help me
.

She desperately needed to fill her lungs with air, but couldn’t. Something was across her mouth. She tried again to open her jaws. It was no use. She couldn’t tell what it was, but it hurt.

Had she been raped? Why had he left her like this? For the first time since regaining consciousness, she felt the pain in her cheek. It was an excruciating dull, throbbing pain. Her left eye was already swollen shut. It was so painful it masked the pain at the back of her head completely.

She tried to get up off the bed. Simultaneously something tightened around her throat and ankles. She tried to move her hands. Something tightened around her wrists. She felt around with her fingers as much as possible. She realized they were touching her own feet. She’d been tied like a dead animal. She became aware of her own nakedness. The panic that could so easily kill her began to rise to new levels as the horror of what could have happened while she was unconscious dawned.

She heard a lamp being switched on. The room was flooded with a soft red light. She didn’t recognize it. She didn’t have red lighting in the room. A gloved hand slipped under her jaw and twisted her head around toward him. She gripped her eyes as tightly closed as she could. She couldn’t bear to look at him. She didn’t want to see him.

He said nothing. Just held her head and waited. Her breathing was terribly fast and erratic, as if she was having an asthma attack. Slowly she began to open her eyes. There was enough light to see.

She looked into his face. It took a few seconds to recognize the man. He looked different and had something over his hair. It was him. The policeman. Sean. She stopped breathing, trying to comprehend what was happening. She almost began to feel relieved. She knew this man.

She saw a spark of red light reflect off the blade of his knife. He moved so quickly and surely. She was still lying on her stomach. He pointed the knife at her swollen eye. He brought his face close to hers. He spoke quietly into her ear.

“If you do as I say, you will live. If not, you die.”

I
t was the most exquisite experience of my life. The others were wonderful, but this was so much better. To spend so much time with her before she died.

After I bound and gagged her, I tortured her for a while. Then I put on two extra-strength condoms and entered her. I’d already shaved off all my pubic hair, so there was no chance of leaving them a hair sample. I told my wife I had a suspected hernia and the doctor had asked me to shave myself before he examined me. The stupid bitch will believe anything I tell her.

She looked shocked when I entered her. As if she just couldn’t believe I could do this to her. If she knew me better, she wouldn’t have been so surprised. When she was gone, she slumped to the floor on her side. Very carefully I removed the condoms, putting them in a self-sealing freezer bag and then into my knapsack. I took the tape off her mouth and put that into another self-sealing bag. I would have so liked to have been naked myself, but it was too dangerous. I must work out how to be naked next time, without leaving a treasure chest of evidence.

I pulled my tracksuit trousers up and grabbed the knapsack. I checked the room and saw the dressing gown was still over the lamp. It had given off a delicious light, making her pale skin appear blood red. No need to remove it. The drawer I had taken the tights from was open too. No need to close it. There was a slight blood smear on the wall behind the bed. No need to clean it.

I moved quietly across the flat to the bathroom, leaving the same way I came in. I want the police to find it, so considered leaving it open, but decided that might be too obvious. My muscles have grown somewhat tired by now, but I have enough strength to hold on to the drainpipe with one arm while I move the catch back to the locked position. I make sure I leave enough scratches on the latch so even the police can find them.

I climb down the drainpipe as quietly as a spider on a thread. I strip off the clothes worn in the flat and put them in large bin liners. These in turn I place inside the rucksack. My other clothes wait in their neat pile for me. I take my time to dress. No need to hurry. I enjoy the calm I feel spreading beautifully through my body and mind, feeling a hundred times more powerful than I did before my visit. The warm night air wraps around my body like smoke around a smoldering log. I put the bag over my shoulder and head toward Shepherd’s Bush.

I will go visiting again soon and next time will be the greatest yet.

CHAPTER 20

Thursday

S
ean, Sally, and Donnelly were back in Sean’s office. They were assessing the feedback from Sally’s appearance on
Crimewatch
and Sean’s press conference. It wouldn’t take long. The phone lines hadn’t exactly been set on fire—a couple of teenage prank calls and a few rough descriptions of men seen in the area of Daniel’s flat, possibly on the night of the murder, maybe not. Far from a deluge of information.

They’d expected as much: Hellier was too cautious to have allowed himself to be seen by witnesses at that time of night. But at least the dedicated surveillance team was back, so Hellier wouldn’t slip away quite so easily again.

Donnelly was called to the phone. He crossed the office, took the receiver from a young detective constable.

“Dave Donnelly.”

“DS Donnelly? How you doing?” Donnelly didn’t recognize the voice. “I’m a friend of Raj Samra. He said you wanted a call if anything out of the ordinary came up. Said you wanted a call before anyone else.”

“That was my request.” Donnelly was naturally suspicious. He didn’t know this man who was doing him a favor. He wasn’t about to let himself be set up. “Sorry, I don’t think I caught your name.”

“DS John Simpson. SCG out west. Murder Investigation Team.”

“Can I call you back in a minute?” Donnelly asked.

“Sure,” Simpson replied. “I’m on a mobile. Want the number?”

Donnelly scribbled the number on a small notepad. He wasted no time in calling Raj Samra. He confirmed that DS John Simpson existed. He vouched for him too. That was good enough. Donnelly called him back.

“DS Simpson.”

“Sorry about that. I was right in the middle of something,” Donnelly lied. “So, what have you got that may interest me?”

There was a worrying pause before Simpson answered. “A body. But I think you’d better come and see for yourself.”

Donnelly thought hard for a few seconds. Should he go? Was he sure enough yet? Probably not. “Okay,” he answered. “I’ll come and take a look. Unofficially for now.”

“I understand,” Simpson reassured him.

“Where are you?”

“It’s a flat over in Shepherd’s Bush. Seventy-three D, Minford Gardens.”

D
C Zukov saw Donnelly appear on the pavement outside the crime scene and head toward him, moving nimbly, looking naturally strong. He stamped his cigarette out as Donnelly got closer.

“You got one of them for me?”

Zukov pulled a squashed packet of Marlboro Lights from his trouser pocket. Donnelly seemed paler than usual. “Well?” Zukov asked. “Did you do it?”

Donnelly lit up and took a deep drag. “No.”

Zukov went quiet. He looked Donnelly up and down. Had the big man lost his nerve? “Why not?” he finally asked.

“Because I’m not sure, that’s why.”

“You’re not sure it’s linked?” Zukov asked.

“Oh, it’s linked,” Donnelly said. “I’m sure all three are linked.”

“So what’s the problem?” Zukov was pushing way more than he’d done before. He wanted this done. He wanted to be part of a successful murder inquiry and he didn’t want to wait any longer.

“I’m not sure Hellier is our man.” He tossed the cigarettes back to Zukov. “Do you live alone?” he asked.

“Why?” Zukov answered.

“Just answer the question.”

“Yeah. I live alone.”

“Good,” Donnelly said. “Then you won’t have to worry about somebody stumbling across this.” He pulled the small sealed evidence bag containing Hellier’s hairs from the cigarette case he’d been concealing it inside. “I’m sick of carrying it around. Take it home with you and remember to keep it in your fridge. That way they’ll look fresh. I’ll tell you when I need them again.” Zukov took the bag without complaining. “Now piss off and find us some coffee,” Donnelly told him. “I’ve got a phone call to make.”

S
ean moved to the rear of his car and pulled a full forensic suit from the boot. He struggled into the blue overalls before showing his identification to a severe-looking female uniformed officer guarding the cordon. He told her he was from the Murder Squad, he just didn’t tell her which one. He could feel the forensics team and local detectives watching him—they’d probably guessed he was the reason they’d been kept out of the scene. Their important work was being delayed and it was his fault.

He walked along the driveway toward the front door of number 73 Minford Gardens, his focus intensifying on the half-open front door. He felt tunnel vision overtaking him, the usual surreal feeling that accompanied him when he approached a murder scene.

He gave the constable guarding the front door his name and rank. The constable didn’t ask why Sean needed to enter the scene. He should have. Sean began to climb the communal stairway to the first-floor flat. He could already smell murder.

Love, hate, terror were tangible things. Real things, not simple emotions. They left overpowering traces of themselves wherever they called. The horror and fear of the previous night had seeped out from the flat and stained the surrounding area with its overpowering odor. It was in the wallpaper, the cheap worn-out carpet. Now it was all over Sean. In his clothes, his hair. The longer he stayed in this place, the deeper it would penetrate him, and before too long it would be in his blood. Then he would feel cold and displaced all day until he could get home and shower, be with Kate, be with his children. And even then he might not be able to find his way back to the comfortable world most lived in.

He climbed the stairs silently. He could hear quiet, muffled voices coming from inside flat number 73D. At least the detectives at the scene were showing respect for the dead. It wasn’t always the case. He reached the front door. One last deep breath, and he knocked gently on the door frame. The two men standing in the narrow hallway turned to face him. They were both wearing full forensic suits. Sean was relieved.

“Hello, gentlemen.” He was being as polite as he knew how. He had the rank, but he was the outsider. “DI Sean Corrigan. SCG South. My sergeant tells me you have a scene that may be of interest to us.”

“Guv’nor,” DS Simpson said. He seemed affable enough. “Come in, please.” He and the other detective offered Sean rubber-gloved palms. They all shook hands. The other detective introduced himself as DC Zak Watson. Even in his forensic suit Sean could tell he was built like a boxer. Scarring to both his eyebrows suggested he’d been no stranger to the ring.

“I read your circulation,” DS Simpson said. “Said you were interested in anything out of the ordinary. Well, I’ve never come across a scene like this. I’ve been unfortunate enough to work dozens of murders, but this one’s . . .” He struggled to find the appropriate words and gave up trying. “Anyway. Your circulation said contact you if we find anything out of the ordinary and this is certainly that.”

Sean was looking around the hallway. Everything seemed normal. No signs of disturbance. No tipped-over furniture or ornaments. No blood smeared or sprayed on the walls. DS Simpson saw him checking it out.

“The whole place is like that. Nothing out of place. Nothing at all. Except the bedroom. It all seems to have happened in there.” He looked along the corridor to the room at the end. Sean followed his gaze.

There was no metallic scent of blood. Clearly she hadn’t been stabbed or cut. Something else. He could smell the faint odor of urine. He assumed from the victim. Had she fouled herself before or after she died? If it was before, then something, someone, had frightened her enough to make her lose control of her bladder.

Sean wouldn’t rush his questioning of the two detectives. He wanted to jump to the end, but he wouldn’t. Keeping it chronological was the key to not losing yourself. Follow the time line. It helped build up a clearer picture of how the horror had come and gone.

“How did he get in?” Sean asked. He meant the killer.

“Not sure,” DS Simpson replied. “We haven’t had a proper look around yet. We’ve been keeping everyone out, as you requested, so forensics hasn’t had a chance to help us with that.”

“Anything obvious?” Sean asked.

“Forced entry? Nothing we can see. The door was locked and all windows are secure.”

“It was warm last night,” Sean said. “But she kept the windows shut?”

DS Simpson shrugged. “We’re only on the first floor here, but the windows are still pretty high above ground level. They’d be almost impossible to reach without ladders. Would I sleep with the windows open? Sure. But would my wife? I don’t think so.”

Sean nodded in agreement. “Who raised the alarm?”

“Her work,” DS Simpson replied. “Apparently she was a real early bird. A bit of a workaholic. They expected her to turn up around eight, if not before. When she hadn’t arrived by nine thirty they rang her. No answer, mobile or home. No problems reported on her tube line and she hadn’t suggested she would be late or taking the day off, so they began to get a little concerned.

“She’s popular enough at work, so I’m told. Anyway, her boss sends a male colleague around here to make sure she’s okay. They guess she’s in bed with the flu. There’s a bit of a summer virus going around. The male colleague’s a guy called Darryl Wilson . . .” DS Simpson paused.

“Is he all right?” Sean wasn’t asking about Wilson’s welfare, he wanted to know if he was under any suspicion.

“Yeah. He’s fine. Anyway, he gets over here midmorning. No answer to the buzzer, so he goes round the side to see what he can see.

“Her blinds still look at least half shut and there’s a faint red light on inside. He’s not happy, so he borrows a ladder from a neighbor and puts it up to her bedroom window. He climbs the ladder and manages to peek through the blinds, sees her on the bed, shits himself, almost falls off the ladder, and does what he should have done in the first place and phones us.”

“Did he enter the flat?”

“No way,” Simpson replied. “He saw enough through the window to turn him into a quivering wreck. Wild horses wouldn’t get him inside after that.”

“Neighbors see her come home with anybody? Hear anybody calling at her flat?” Sean asked.

“Too early to say.”

“Who’s your DI?” Sean should have asked earlier.

“Vicky Townsend,” Simpson told him.

That was good news. Sean knew her of old. He gave a slight nod.

Simpson saw it. “You know her then?”

“Yeah,” Sean replied. “We used to work together.”

“She’s solid,” Simpson said. It was a major compliment. She’d been solid when Sean knew her too. “She’ll be here soon. Shall we?” Simpson pointed to the living room. The door was wide open.

Sean took the lead. He felt Simpson and Watson were about to follow him, but he needed to do this alone. “Listen,” he said as pleasantly as he could. “You’ve already been through this place. Forensics won’t be happy if you walk through again just to help me. I’d rather not cause you any more grief than I probably already have, so best you wait here, or outside if you fancy some fresh air. I’ll find my own way around.”

The two detectives nodded to each other and headed for the front door. “I’ll send DI Townsend up when she arrives,” Simpson told him.

“Thanks,” Sean replied. He was already in the living room. Leaving the outside world behind. Entering the killer’s world.

H
ellier had arrived home sometime after 3
A.M.
to find that his wife had been waiting for him. She had a lot of questions she wanted him to answer, but he’d insisted he needed to be alone, that the stress of the police investigation was getting to him. He’d told her he loved her, that she and the children were his life. She’d cried tears of both joy and fear.

But someone else had been waiting for him when he arrived home—the police. He could feel them easily enough. They must have been sitting out there all night waiting for him and now they didn’t know where he’d been for over nine hours. Had Corrigan slept at all? He had more unpleasant surprises for DI Sean Corrigan.

It was almost midday and he still hadn’t been to the office. He’d called them to say he’d be working from home in the morning. He’d be in this afternoon. He stood on Westminster Bridge and gazed northwest across the Thames at the Houses of Parliament. He never did buy himself a politician. A cabinet minister would have been handy. Not to worry. Maybe next time.

The midday sun sparkled on the surface of the Thames. It was quite beautiful. Parliament’s reflection was as impressive as the real thing. Most of the architecture along the banks of the great river pleased him. Especially the north bank. Some unpleasant monstrosities had somehow been allowed to appear on the south bank, but it was still magnificent. A river to rival any in the world. He made a note to himself. Wherever he went next must have a river running through its heart, or at least a dominating harbor. Yes, he could make do with a harbor. Or even a lake, surrounded by mountains.

His mobile phone rang in his breast pocket. He considered tossing the damn thing into the Thames. A symbolic gesture of leaving this city. Instead he answered it.

“Mr. Hellier? Mr. James Hellier?” It was the same nervous voice from the previous day. He recognized it immediately.

“I don’t appreciate having my time wasted,” Hellier snapped.

“I was being followed.” The voice sounded strained. “I couldn’t risk leading them to you.”

“Who was following you?” Hellier demanded. “The police? The press?”

“I don’t know, but I need to see you. I’ll contact you soon.”

“Wait. Why do you need to see me? Wait.” The voice was gone. Hellier no longer felt tired. Who was this man, this man telling him he was a friend? James Hellier didn’t have any friends. If the voice belonged to a journalist, then what was he waiting for—what was his angle? Hellier couldn’t see it, and that bothered him. Maybe it was time to consider the possibility that his
friend
was something entirely different.

S
ean didn’t like being in the flat alone, but the quiet peace was a blessing. He could hear what the scene was telling him. He moved around the living room, keeping to the edges to avoid stepping on microscopic evidence. He touched as little as possible and made a permanent mental note of anything he did.