Cold Killing: A Novel (33 page)

He lifted the lid of the toilet cistern and placed it on the toilet seat. He pulled the plastic bag from the cistern and untied it. Carefully, he undid the parcel and laid out the gun and spare magazine. He checked his watch. Six forty-five. Fifteen minutes to spare. He clicked the battery back into the mobile phone. He would turn it on once he’d left the bar.

He dressed in the tracksuit, T-shirt, and trainers. He stuffed the gun in the back of his waistband and tied the trouser cord tight. He put the phone in one of the top’s pockets and the spare magazine in the other.

Finally he unwrapped the remaining cloth. He twisted the lid off the tube of theatrical glue and rubbed a little on the back of the fake mustache. He stuck it above his lip, using touch to ensure it was placed perfectly. Next he did the same with the matching eyebrows. The wig he donned last. He didn’t need a mirror to know his appearance had been transformed. He smiled to himself.

He neatly folded his discarded clothes and placed them along with his shoes into the plastic bag. He replaced it in the cistern. He might need it later. You could never tell. He delicately replaced the cistern’s lid. One last deep breath to compose himself and he left the cubicle. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he left. He smiled. He walked out of the toilet and then he walked out of the bar.

D
S Colville checked her watch. Ten minutes had passed and still the only updates she was hearing on her team’s covert body-set radios were “No change.” Sean’s words rang loudly in her head. She spoke into the radio.

“I don’t like this. Tango Four, check inside the toilet.”

Her radio made a double-click sound. The officer code named Tango Four had received and understood her transmission. She waited for an update. Two minutes passed. They seemed like two hours. Her radio hissed into life.

“Control. Control. Tango Four.”

“Go. Go,” she instructed.

“We have a problem, Control.”

DS Colville gritted her teeth. “Expand, over.”

“Target One isn’t in the toilet, over.”

“Does any unit have eyeball on Target One?” she called into her radio. Silence was her only answer. “Look for him, people. Does anyone have eyeball on Target One?” Silence.

She turned to the detective driving their unmarked car. “I don’t believe this,” she muttered. “Okay. Target is a loss. Repeat, target is a loss. All units bomb burst. Foot units search the bar. Everyone else swamp the surrounding area. Find him.”

Throwing the radio onto the dashboard in disgust, she reached for her mobile phone. She searched the phone’s menu for Sean’s number.

S
ean listened as DS Colville told him what he most dreaded hearing. Hellier was on the loose once more. “How?” he said into the phone.

“We don’t know,” DS Colville replied. “We had him cornered in the toilet one minute, then he disappears. No one sees him leave. We didn’t miss anything. He just disappeared. We’ll keep searching the area until we pick him up.”

“Save yourselves the bother,” Sean said wearily. “You won’t find him until he wants to be found. Cover his house and office. Call me when he turns up.” He hung up.

“Please tell me that wasn’t what I think it was?” Sally said.

“I wish I could.”

“How?” Sally asked.

“It doesn’t matter how.”

“What now?” Donnelly asked.

“We keep our heads,” Sean told them. “Hope he resurfaces. In the meantime, contact Special Branch and get a photograph of Hellier to them. Make sure they circulate it to all ports of exit, planes, trains, everywhere.”

“You think he’ll try and skip the country?” Sally asked.

“DNA evidence is difficult to argue against. Hellier knows that. Perhaps he’s decided he has no choice but to run.”

“Is that his style, to run?” Sally didn’t look convinced.

“He’s a survivor,” said Sean. “He’ll do whatever it takes to survive. If that means running, then he’ll run.”

H
ellier sat on a bench in Regent’s Park waiting for the friend to call. He had said he would call at seven. It was now almost half past.

What was this damn game? Hellier had no friends. No real friends. Most likely it was a journalist, trying to set him up. He stared at the phone in the palm of his hand, willing it to ring. He had to know who the friend was. His overpowering need to control everything meant he simply had to know. Once he knew, once he decided whether they were a threat or not, he would deal with them accordingly. After that, home. The children he would leave alone, but his wife, she would be his parting gift to DI Corrigan.

The police would be watching his home though. He would have to be careful. He would let his wife take the children to school in the morning. He would fake illness. When she returned, he would be waiting for her. After he’d finished with her, he’d spend the rest of the day running the police around town. He would lead them a merry song and dance for hours. They could never stay with him for that long. Not him. He knew their tactics too well. And once he was certain he had lost them, he would disappear.

By the time they became suspicious and broke into his house, it would be too late. He would be thirty thousand feet above their heads. A false passport was already waiting for him in a Hampstead fine china shop. Once he collected the tickets, he would catch a train to Birmingham. His flight for Rome left at 8
P.M.
After a two-hour wait at the Rome airport he would board a connecting flight to Singapore. Two flights later he would arrive in his new home.

His phone began to vibrate. He answered it calmly. “James Hellier.”

“It’s me,” said the friend’s voice. “Sorry I’m late.”

“I don’t like being kept waiting.” Hellier wanted to dominate. “This is your last chance to impress me.”

“Oh. You’ll be impressed. I can guarantee that.” Hellier sensed a change in the friend’s voice. He thought he could detect an arrogance that hadn’t been there previously. There was a hint of danger too. He didn’t like it.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” Hellier responded, determined to take charge, show his strength. “You will answer yes or no. You have three seconds exactly to answer. If you answer no or fail to answer in the time allowed, I will hang up and we will never contact each other again. Understood?”

“I understand.” The voice didn’t argue. Hellier had expected he would.

“Will you meet me?” Hellier asked. “Tonight?”

“Yes,” the friend answered on the count of two. “As long as you promise you’ll do one thing.”

“I don’t make promises to people I don’t know,” Hellier answered.

“Stay away from other people until we meet,” the voice asked regardless. “No bars or restaurants, and don’t go home or to your office. The police will be waiting there. Stay alone. Stay hidden.”

Now Hellier understood. In that second it had become all too clear to him. It all made sense. His eyes opened wide as he realized who he was speaking with. Who else could it be?

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll do as you say until we meet.”

“I will call you, later tonight, and let you know when and where. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Hellier hung up.

What did his friend expect? That he would hide in a bush in the park, like a frightened, wounded animal? Not him. This was London, one of his favorite playgrounds. And he had so little time left to play.

No. He had better things to do than cower and wait.

“I know who you are, my friend.” He spoke to himself. “And when we meet, you’ll tell me a thing or two. Then I’ll feed you your own testicles, before I gut you like a pig.”

CHAPTER 24

S
ean arrived home late, again. He’d hoped Kate would be in bed, but as he quietly opened the front door he could sense her presence. He followed the glow coming from the kitchen and found her tapping at her laptop, hair tied back, heavy glasses adorning her fine-boned face. “You’re up late” was all he could think of to say.

“You’re not the only one who has to work late. I work too, remember?” This was not how Sean wanted the conversation to begin. He’d had enough conflict for one day. “I need to get this plan for restructuring the A and E department finished or I might not be part of the new structure myself.” Again Sean didn’t answer. “You’re not really interested, are you?”

“Sorry?” Sean asked over his shoulder.

“Never mind,” she snapped, shaking her head with disapproval. “We’ve been invited to dinner at Joe and Tim’s next weekend, so make sure you book the night off, all right?”

“Err . . . ,” escaped from Sean’s lips.

“Well, I’m overwhelmed by your enthusiasm at the thought of spending an evening with me,” Kate said sarcastically.

“It’s not you,” Sean tried to assure her.

“I thought you liked Tim, and there’ll be other people there too,” Kate encouraged.

“I don’t know Tim. I’ve met him, but I don’t know him.”

“Come on, Sean,” Kate appealed. “Just book the time off.”

“It’s not that easy, is it?”

“Why?” Kate asked. “Can’t you bear being away from your police friends even for one night?”

“They’re not my friends,” Sean answered too quickly.

“Whatever, Sean, but you know and I know that you can’t stand to be with ‘nonpolice’ people”—Kate simulated quotation marks with her fingers—“because you’re all so fucking important that the rest of us mere mortals might as well not exist. True?”

Sean waited a long time before answering. “Don’t swear. I don’t like it when you swear.”

“Well, stop giving me so fucking much to swear about.” Sean turned his back. “Come on, Sean,” Kate softened. “I don’t sell insurance for a living, I’m a doctor in Guy’s A and E. Whatever awful things you’ve seen, I’ve seen them too, but I manage to lower myself to speak to people who live normal lives—so why can’t you?”

“Because they’re . . .” Sean managed to stop himself answering truthfully, but it was too late.

“Because they’re what?” Kate pursued him. “Because they’re boring, because they bore you?”

“Jesus, Kate,” he protested. “Give it a rest, will you?”

“So you’re never going to speak to anyone again who isn’t a cop?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, it’s not. It’s the truth.”

Sean grabbed a bottle of bourbon from one of the kitchen cupboards, a glass from another, and poured himself a generous measure. He took a sip before speaking again. “Christ, you know what it’s like. As soon as people find out what I do, all they want to talk to me about is the job, fishing for the gory details. They haven’t got a bloody clue. If they did, they wouldn’t ask.”

“Maybe it’s us who haven’t got a clue, Sean,” Kate said quietly. “Maybe we’re the ones who’ve got it all wrong, wasting our lives knee deep in life’s crap.”

“Why, because we know the truth? Because we know life isn’t really a shiny advert?” Sean argued. “I’d rather be awake and live in isolation than be like all those mugs out there, walking around without a fucking clue.”

Kate breathed in deeply and cleared her head. She’d dealt with this before and knew she’d have to deal with it again. “Is this about your childhood or about being a detective?”

“Oh, come on, Kate. Let’s not get into that, not now,” Sean answered.

“Okay,” Kate agreed. “But if you ever need to talk about it, I’m here.”

“I’m tired, that’s all. I’m fine,” Sean insisted. “I’m just very tired.”

“Of course you’re tired,” Kate agreed. “You haven’t slept more than three hours a night since this new one started. Look, I’m going to bed. Why don’t you come with me?”

“I need a minute or two to unwind,” Sean told her. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Come now,” Kate pleaded. “I’ll rub your shoulders while you fall asleep.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes—promise,” he lied. The thought of tossing and turning, fighting the ever-present demons was unbearable.

“Don’t be long,” she said, turning from him.

He watched her move from the kitchen table and glide toward the stairs, once looking over her shoulder to smile at him, the harsh words of seconds ago forgotten, at least by her. Once she was out of sight, Sean reached for the bottle of bourbon and poured another generous measure.

S
ally parked her car close to her flat. Sean had sent them all home. They might as well get a few hours of sleep before Hellier turned up again, if he ever did. She searched for her front door keys, buried deep in the bottom of her handbag. Breaking one of her own rules—never stand at the front door fumbling for house keys.

“For God’s sake,” she grumbled, losing her grip on her handbag and spilling the contents onto the ground. She stared at the disaster. “Fucking great.”

Sally knelt down and began to collect the debris. At least she’d found her keys. Something made her spin around. Still kneeling, she surveyed the area around her. Suddenly she couldn’t remember what had startled her. She gave a nervous laugh and gathered the rest of her belongings.

She stood and looked along the street. It was almost unnaturally quiet. The way only city streets could be in the night. Somewhere streets away a dog barked. The sound somehow made her feel better. She unlocked the communal front door, entered, and closed it behind her. She pressed the light timer switch in the hallway, giving her thirty seconds of light before the darkness returned.

Hurriedly she climbed the stairs to her first-floor flat, again fumbling for her keys and cursing herself. Why was she nervous? Slow down. Put the key in the lock and turn it. The door opened. She almost fell into the flat. She hadn’t realized she’d been leaning on the door so hard. Closing the door behind her, she threw the bolts across the bottom and top.

She disliked the harsher overhead lights, choosing instead to walk across the dark room she knew so well to the lamp in the far corner. She reached for the lamp switch, but something touched her hand. Material. Silk or nylon. She didn’t understand. She recoiled as if she’d touched a spider’s web, but curiosity overcame her fear. She moved her hand through the darkness to the lamp. Again, the material. She pushed her hand through it, finding the switch and turning the lamp on. Light shone through the red silk neck scarf that was now draped over it. It had been a present to herself for Christmas. The room glowed red. This wasn’t right. A cool breeze brushed against her face. It came from the kitchen. That shouldn’t be. The window shouldn’t be open.

She felt him behind her. Close enough to hear him breathing. She almost fainted. Then she almost vomited. He was waiting for her to make her move. Like a snake lying within striking distance, but she was frozen. Fear controlled her.

Finally she forced her body to move, turning toward him, inching herself around, desperately trying to recall her self-defense training. Aim a knee for his groin. God help her if she missed. A knee in the groin and then run.

She forced herself to speak. “Please.” Her voice was almost inaudible. “Please. You know what I am. Leave now and this won’t go any further. I promise.” She was face-to-face with him. She almost fainted again. He stood above her. He was only about five foot ten, but he looked like a giant.

He wore a dark tracksuit and rubber gloves. A tight-knit woolen hat covered his hair. She could see that every muscle in his body was tense, his arms rigid by his sides. The red lighting made his teeth shine like rubies.

Sally studied his face. It was distorted by the light and his contorted muscles, but she could see him clearly. He was letting her see his face. She knew who he was. Knew he wasn’t going to let her live. She was going to die and nobody else in the world knew. She had so many things she wanted to do, wanted to say to people, but now she was going to die.

He moved so quickly she hardly saw him. She had no time to react. A hand gripped around her neck, slowly crushing her throat. He was so strong. Was this how he would do it? Crush her throat. The other hand flashed a blade in front of her face. She thought she recognized it from her own kitchen. He pulled her so close she could see the fine wrinkles in his skin.

“Make a sound, you die. Struggle, you die. Do as I say and you live.”

It was a lie. She wasn’t like the others. Clinging to the hope that he could be telling the truth, they’d have done anything for the chance to live. But she had seen his face. She knew he would never let her live. She nodded her head anyway.

“Do you know how lucky you are to have been chosen?” He spoke slowly through clenched teeth. He held the knife to her throat and released his grip.

“I’ll do as you say. I promise,” she pleaded.

He smiled and licked his lips. She felt the knife drop away from her throat slightly. Only a few millimeters. It would have to be enough.

Without warning she smashed her right fist as hard as she could into the underside of his jaw. The knife flashed across her throat, but she’d already leaned back. It slashed through the air. She brought her knee up into his groin. He began to bend double. She sprang for her front door. She would live.

The top of her head suddenly burned with pain. Her run jarred to a stop as her legs fell from under her. He gripped her by the hair, twisting it around his fist as he pulled her back. She could feel the tears stinging the backs of her eyes. She had to scream.

She filled her lungs as he spun her in his grip to face him. She saw him make a quick move, his free arm jabbed toward her. The air in her lungs deserted her, yet she hadn’t screamed. She hadn’t been able to.

It felt like a punch, like having the wind knocked out of her. Nothing more than a dull ache in her chest. Her head was forcefully bent forward. He wanted her to see the knife buried to the hilt in the right side of her chest. He tugged the knife free. It didn’t come easily. Her chest muscles had gripped the foreign body, trying to stem the breach. She wheezed horribly. She could physically feel the air from her lung rushing out through the wound.

He pulled her closer. “Fucking bitch. Slut, bitch. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This is not as I saw it. This is not how it was supposed to be.”

Pushing her away, he held her at arm’s length. Another flash of his hand. She felt the same dull pain, but something else too. The knife had hit a rib. He pulled to free it, but it wouldn’t move. It was jammed in her rib.

The pain and shock were too much. She fell unconscious. The only thing stopping her falling to the floor was his grip on her hair and the knife wedged in her chest. Finally he let her slip to the floor. He placed a foot on the left side of her chest and pulled on the knife. It wouldn’t move.

“Fucking pig whore,” he hissed. He wanted to spit on her, but wouldn’t risk leaving his DNA in the saliva at the scene.

He stood over her, watching the crimson spreading across her white blouse. Her breathing was shallow, but she was alive. Suddenly he was hypnotized by her. He cocked his head to one side like a bird of prey watching its kill, writhing, trapped under its talons.

But it was spoiled. This was not how he had foreseen it. No matter. He calmed himself. He would finish her quickly and leave. All great men suffered frustration, he reassured himself. He would learn from his mistakes.

He pulled at the knife protruding from her chest. Still it wouldn’t move. She was all but finished, but he wouldn’t take the chance and leave her like this. He peered through the living room to the kitchen. His mind tried to recall what other knives he had seen in the drawer when he had selected the one now embedded in Sally’s chest. Most had felt blunt. He recalled running a finger carefully along their cutting edges, blunt. She hadn’t taken care of them. So be it. He would cut her throat with a blunt knife. It would take longer. It wouldn’t be clean and neat. She had only herself to blame.

He studied her once more. Air leaking from her chest puncture made the blood around the entry wound bubble and hiss. It reminded him of when he was a boy, fixing punctures on his bicycle. Should he drag her to the kitchen, keep her close? No. Quicker to leave her there.

Decision made, he turned and strode to the kitchen. Despite the disappointment, he still felt magnificent. Powerful. Untouchable. Like a god. He knew which drawer to open. The knives weren’t organized. He shifted the knives around with a gloved hand, ignoring the large carving ones. Trying to find something with a four-inch blade. Smooth or serrated edge, it didn’t matter, but it had to be rigid. Thick and strong from hilt to tip. A chopping knife would be best. He’d already used the best one, but he found a substitute. A black-handled vegetable knife. He held the knife up to his face, slightly above his eye line. It would do.

He turned back toward the living room, expecting to see Sally’s head and upper body lying on the floor, the rest of her obscured by the sofa. Instead he saw her open the front door and stagger into the communal hallway. Somehow she had gotten to her feet. He saw the blood smear around the top door bolt. He had underestimated her strength. Her will to live. To survive. It had been a mistake.

Should he flee? He glanced over his shoulder at the open window in the kitchen. He looked back at Sally. Could he reach her before she started pounding on the neighbor’s front door? Would she reach their door? It was less than ten feet away, but it would feel like a marathon to her. He willed her to collapse.

He couldn’t let this happen. She had seen him. His grip tightened around the knife. He watched her stagger sideways, but remain on her feet. He began to walk toward her, long confident steps propelling him forward.

She fell, crashing into her neighbor’s door, and banged her fist twice, as hard as she could, on the door. Still he strode toward her, cutting through the dim red light that now spilled into the hallway. She had to die. She could destroy him. He couldn’t allow that to happen.