Cold Killing: A Novel (31 page)

Hellier looked across at Templeman, who nodded confirmation that Sean was telling the truth.

“Fine,” said Hellier. “Take your samples and get me out of here.”

“I’m sorry,” Sean said. “Get you out of here? No, that won’t be possible. You’re staying in custody until the DNA comparison’s complete.”

“Fuck you,” Hellier exploded. He was standing now. “You can’t keep me locked in this fucking cage.” Templeman pulled him back into his seat.

Sean spoke for the benefit of the tape recorder. “Interview terminated at twelve twenty-three
P.M
.” He clicked the machine off. “I’ll arrange for someone to take your samples.” Then he walked out of the interview room, leaving Donnelly to deal with Templeman’s protests. He smiled as he closed the door behind him, listening to the raised voices fading in the background.

F
eatherstone sipped a coffee as he waited outside the custody suite. He knew Sean would head that way eventually. Much as he liked the guy, even believed in him, he was aware that, so far as the top brass were concerned, Sean had a tendency to sail way too close to the wind.

“Sean,” Featherstone said, surprising him as he clattered through the door. “You got a minute?” He gestured toward an unoccupied room.

“Can this wait?”

“Best not. We won’t be long.”

Reluctantly, Sean followed Featherstone into the room.

“It seems some influential people are beginning to stick their noses into your investigation,” Featherstone warned him. “Calls have been put in to the Yard and the brass are getting nervous. I’ll keep the hounds at bay, but you’d better make sure you’ve got some evidence to back up any move you make.”

“We found hairs at the latest scene,” Sean told him. “We can get DNA off them. We match them to Hellier and then it’s all over.”

“That’s a start,” Featherstone said. “But we can’t hold a suspect in custody while we wait for a DNA comparison. So what’s the plan?”

“I need to keep him rattled. Keep him off balance. Let me keep him locked up for a few hours.” Sean spoke quietly, suppressing his anger. “Then I’ll bail him, once he’s nice and wound up, not thinking straight. The surveillance team can pick him up the second he leaves the station.”

Featherstone inhaled deeply. “Okay. We’ll play it your way, but be careful with this one, Sean. Hellier has some very powerful friends.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“One other thing,” Featherstone said as Sean turned to leave. “What’s this I hear about the victim in Shepherd’s Bush saying she’d met you the night she was killed?”

“You heard?”

“There’s not much I don’t get to hear about.”

“Hellier likes to play games.”

“You need to be careful,” Featherstone warned him again. “Be very careful. People are watching this case. People are watching you. My advice—make sure you can prove where you were and who you were with the night Linda Kotler was killed.”

“You can’t be serious?” Sean asked, incredulous. “You don’t actually think . . . ?”

“Not me,” Featherstone assured him. “But this investigation is turning out to be more complex than anyone expected. It’s making the powers that be very nervous, Sean.”

Sean felt a huge weight pressing down on him, as if Featherstone’s words and inferred suspicion were slowly crushing the life out of him. “I’ll bear that in mind,” he said curtly, turning his back on the superintendent and walking out of the room.

He made his way along the corridor and into the communal toilet. After checking to make sure he was alone, he filled a sink with cold water and bent low over it, scooping up handfuls and burying his face in it before straightening to meet his own reflection staring back. His eyes were sunken with tiredness and dehydration, Featherstone’s words still ringing around inside his head. He reached out for the reflection, but the image looking back at him kept distorting to someone else: to the disfigured image of Daniel Graydon, the horrified face of Heather Freeman, and finally Linda Kotler’s face, contorted with agony and fear. He rubbed the mirror, smearing it with water then waiting for it to clear. When it did, it was his own face again, staring back and asking the question: could he have killed Linda Kotler? He swallowed drily, remembering the images he’d seen in his head at the murder scenes and other murder scenes in the past. Not for the first time he found himself asking another question: were these images from his projected imagination, or were they memories—memories of crimes he had committed?

“You were at home with Kate the night Linda Kotler died, and the same when Daniel Graydon was killed—you were at home.” Desperately he tried to remember where he’d been the evening Heather Freeman was killed, but he couldn’t. He felt the panic seeping through his very soul. “You were with your wife,” he hissed into the mirror, but he couldn’t chase away the doubt, the possibility he was no different from half the inmates of Broadmoor. Could it be that his home life was a fantasy, his wife a figment of his imagination, his entire family nothing more than a mirage—a projection of what he wanted most but could never have?

“No,” he banged the mirror with the underside of his fist. “For Christ’s sake, get a grip. You’re tired, that’s all. You solved those other murders. The people who did them are locked up for life because of you.” He took a deep breath. “Hellier killed these people. I’m real. My life is real. It’s real.”

Suddenly the door was thrown open by a uniformed officer desperate for the toilet. He stalled for a second at the sight of Sean standing in front of the mirror, face dripping wet, hands gripping the basin. With a brief nod at Sean, he disappeared into a cubicle. When the door closed behind him, Sean quickly dried his hands on a bunch of paper towels and made for the exit.

S
ally entered Che shortly after 1
P.M.
and immediately spotted Gibran seated at a table, sipping a glass of amber-colored wine. He stood when he saw her. A waiter pulled a chair out for her as Gibran indicated for her to sit with a wave of his hand and a smile.

“DS Jones. I’m very grateful you were able to see me.”

“Please,” she said. “Call me Sally.”

“Sally, of course. And you must call me Sebastian—deal?”

“Deal,” Sally agreed.

“Can I get you a drink? Or is that against the rules? I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.” He gave Sally a boyish grin, full of mischief. She already felt relaxed in his company.

“Why not? Whatever you’re having will be fine.”

Gibran nodded once at the nearby waiter, who scuttled away immediately. “The venison here is excellent,” he informed her, “but a little fussy for my taste. You’ll find I’m a simple man with simple tastes, except when it comes to people, of course.”

It seemed to Sally that he was trying to impress her with his modesty and down-to-earth attitude, despite his obvious wealth and influence. She was duly impressed, but she wasn’t about to let it show. Not yet.

“So, what is it I can do for you, Sebastian?”

“Straight to the point.” He stalled while the waiter served Sally’s wine. “I hope you like it. Dominico here tells me it’s a very fine Sancerre and as I am nowhere near as well informed in these matters, I’m completely in his hands.” Gibran waited for the wine waiter to leave before speaking again. “You must tell me if the wine’s any good, then I’ll know whether Dominico’s been ripping me off the last few years.”

She took a sip and smiled at him, holding his gaze for a little too long. She concentrated on sounding businesslike. “It’s very nice, thank you. Now, why am I here?”

“I wish I could say it was purely for pleasure, but I’m guessing you’ve already assumed that’s not the case.”

“I’m a detective. I try not to make assumptions.”

“Of course. Sorry,” Gibran said with natural charm. “We’re here because we have a mutual interest in a certain party.”

“James Hellier?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, his expression suddenly serious, the flirtatious, boyish personality evaporating in an instant.

“Mr. Gibran—Sebastian. If you’re here to try and somehow influence my opinion of Hellier’s involvement in this case, then I should warn you—”

“That’s not my intention,” Gibran insisted, tapping his glass while speaking. “I wouldn’t insult your intelligence. I thought you should know my feelings on the subject, that’s all.”

“Your feelings on the subject would only be of interest to me if they were somehow relevant to our investigation. So, are they?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure if it’s relevant or not. I just thought someone connected to the investigation should know, which is why I called you.”

“Why didn’t you contact DI Corrigan?”

“I get the feeling he’s not my biggest fan.”

“Well, I’m here,” Sally said with an air of resignation. “So what is it you think I should know about?”

“How can I put this?” Gibran began. “When James first came to us, he was a model employee. He served the firm above and beyond all expectations for several years.” He paused. “However . . .”

“However what?” Sally encouraged.

“I’m sorry.” Gibran shook his head. “It’s not in my nature to talk out of school. I would imagine it’s the same in your job, rule number one being to look out for each other.”

“Well, you haven’t broken any rules yet, because so far you haven’t told me anything.”

“And under normal circumstances I wouldn’t tell you.” Gibran’s blue eyes drilled deeply into Sally’s, showing her a flash of his true power and status. She found him no less attractive for it. “It’s just that, lately, well, I’ve found his behavior to be somewhat . . . erratic. Unpredictable. Troubling, even. Half the time I don’t know where he is, or who he’s with. He’s missed several high-profile meetings the last few weeks, all of which is out of character.” Gibran appeared genuinely concerned.

“When did you first become aware of this change in personality?” Sally asked.

“I suppose it started a couple of months ago. And now this latest episode, the police raiding our office, dragging James away like a common criminal. Not exactly the image we’re hoping to portray at Butler and Mason.”

“No. I don’t suppose it is.”

Gibran leaned across the table, and spoke quietly. “Do you really believe he killed that man? Is James capable of such a thing?”

“What do you think?” Sally asked.

Gibran leaned away again before replying. “I’m not sure, to be honest. Not now. My head’s spinning a little at the moment. I’m coming under some fairly intense pressure from above to resolve this situation.”

“Has something happened to make you feel that way?”

Gibran sipped his wine before answering. “The other day, I went to James’s office to speak to him, to see what I could find out.”

“I hope you haven’t been playing amateur detective,” Sally warned him. “That could cause us procedural difficulties, especially if you’ve questioned him at all.”

“No,” Gibran replied hastily. “Nothing like that. But you should understand that I am responsible for a great many things at Butler and Mason and a great many employees. I am, if you like, Butler and Mason’s own internal police force. I will do whatever I have to do to protect the firm and the people within it. If James is putting either at risk, then . . .” Gibran let his statement linger.

“You do what you have to do. But make sure you don’t cross over into our criminal investigation. That would leave us both in a compromised position.”

“I understand,” Gibran assured her. “You’ve made yourself clear. I have no wish to fall out with the police, especially you.”

“Good,” Sally said, ending the debate. “So what did Hellier have to say for himself during this little chat you and he had?”

“Nothing specific. He seemed very distracted.”

“Not surprising,” Sally said dismissively.

“Indeed. But it was more a feeling I had,” Gibran explained. “I’ve known James for several years and this was the first time I’ve ever felt . . . well, uncomfortable in his presence, even a little intimidated.”

“Go on.”

“I almost felt as if for the first time I was meeting the real James Hellier, and that the person I’d known up till now didn’t really exist.

“Tell me, Sally,” Gibran asked, his tone suddenly lighthearted, “are you familiar with the work of Friedrich Nietzsche?”

“I can’t say that I am,” Sally admitted.

“Not many people are.” Gibran dismissed Sally’s lack of knowledge before it could make her uncomfortable. “He was a philosopher who believed in men being ruled over by a select group of benevolent supermen. Nonsense, of course. I was talking to James about it, trying to relax him, make him feel less like he was being interviewed, but I almost felt as if James believed in it. I mean,
really
believed it. He started talking about living his life beyond good and evil, as Nietzsche had decreed. Normally I would have dismissed it, but given all that’s happened, suddenly it sounded . . . sinister.”

“Is that it?”

“Like I said,” Gibran replied, leaning back into his comfortable chair, “it was just a feeling.”

“Well,” Sally said after a long pause. “If you find or feel anything else, you know how to get hold of me.”

“Of course.” Gibran looked around him uncomfortably. “You take someone under your wing. You trust them, think you know them. Then all this happens.” He sipped his wine. “He’s not the man I used to know. He may seem the same, but he’s different. To answer your original question: do I think James could be involved in killing those people? The truth is, I simply don’t know anymore. The fact that I can’t dismiss it out of hand is bad enough, I dread to think . . .”

“One way or another, we’ll all know the answer soon enough.”

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said quickly, recovering herself. “Nothing at all.”

“Good,” he declared. “Now that’s out of the way, we can enjoy our lunch. I do hope you don’t have to run off anywhere. It’ll make a change to have a civilized lunch with someone who isn’t boring me out of my mind with their latest get-rich-quick idea.”

“No,” she said. “I’m due a break. Besides, I don’t think I could stand the sight of another sandwich.”

“Then here’s to you,” he said, raising his glass slightly. “Here’s to us.”