[ebooktalk] Two books
- From: "David Russelll" <david.russell8@xxxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: <ebooktalk@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- Date: Thu, 31 Oct 2013 12:02:23 -0000
Hi
Just to prove Pele's instructions worked, attached is the Delaney book plus
the next in the series.
Highly recommended if you enjoy crime fiction.
David
THE KEEPER
by
Luke Delaney
Grade 1.
DI Sean Corrigan is different to most cops. He's no psychic, but his own dark
past has given him the ability to step into a crime scene and see it through
the eyes of the offender. He understands what drives a person to commit murder,
rape, arson - but sometimes his gift seems more like a burden.
When the brutally murdered body of a young woman is found in the woods,
Corrigan and his team are on the case. But this is not the act of a one-time
offender. They're on the trail of someone who has been taking women from their
homes and keeping them captive before disposing of their bodies.
This killer is looking for the perfect woman - and when he finds her, he's
going to keep her. Whether she likes it or not...
Dedication
I don't believe we're all lucky enough to find our true soul mates in this
life, but I have. I would love nothing more than to write her name in lights
high above the world for everyone to see, but unfortunately because of my past
life I cannot. So instead of a galactic firework display in her honour, I
dedicate this book, The Keeper, to my incredible wife - LJ, whose love has done
much to shape the man I am today.
At our wedding my Dad gave a little speech and described LJ and I as being a
powerful force. It took me a few years to fully realize what he meant, but now
the meaning of his words is crystal clear, as anyone who's ever seen us
together would understand. We drive each other, push each other forward,
challenge each other when it's needed, criticize each other when it's
warranted, but above all else we love and support each other. We can do all
these things because we belong to each other - are safe and secure with each
other - respect and adore each other.
So here's to LJ - loving and dedicated mother, a fearless captain of her
industry and inspirational leader both at work and at home - a young girl from
a nowhere town who overcame all the significant disadvantages and hurdles life
put in her way to reach the very top. And most importantly of all, and as a
lesson to everyone, she achieved all this without ever telling a lie, without
ever being deceitful, while always being kind and loyal, and with an
unshakeable morality.
Without LJ, I could easily have lost my way - at the very least settled for
less than I could have been. So for all she has given me I thank her and love
her.
For LJ
Love,
LD x
1
Thomas Keller walked along the quiet suburban street in Anerley, south-east
London, an area that provided affordable housing to those attracted to the
capital who discovered that they could only afford to live on its edges,
financially excluded from the very things they had come to London for in the
first place. He knew Oakfield Road well, having walked its length several times
over the previous few weeks and he knew in which house Louise Russell lived.
Keller was cautious. Although confident he would draw little attention in his
Post Office uniform, this was not his normal route. Someone might realize he
shouldn't be there and that the mail had already been delivered earlier that
morning, but he couldn't wait any longer - he needed Louise Russell today.
As he approached number 22 he made sure to drop post through the letter boxes
of neighbouring houses, just in case some bored resident had nothing to do
other than spy on the street where nothing happened anyway. As he posted junk
mail his eyes flicked at the windows and doors of the street's ugly new brick
houses, built for practicality with no thought of individuality or warmth.
Their design provided excellent privacy, however, and that had made Louise
Russell even more attractive to him.
His excitement and fear were rising to levels he could barely control, the
blood pumping through his arteries and veins so fast it hurt his head and
blurred his vision. He quickly checked inside his postal delivery sack,
shuffling the contents around, moving the junk mail aside, touching the items
he had brought with him for reassurance - the electric stun-gun he'd bought on
one of his rare holidays outside of Britain, the washing-up liquid bottle that
contained chloroform, a clean flannel, a roll of heavy-duty tape and a thin
blanket. He would need them all soon, very soon.
Only a few steps to the front door now and he could sense the woman inside,
could taste and smell her. The architecture of the soulless house meant that
once he had reached the front door he could not be seen from the street and nor
could Louise Russell's red Ford Fiesta. He held his hand up to ring the
doorbell, but paused to steady himself before pressing the button attached to
the door frame, in case he needed to persuade her to open the door to him.
After what felt like hours he finally pressed it and waited, until a jerky
shadow moved from the bowels of the house towards the front door. He stared at
the opaque glass window in the door as the shadow took on colour and the door
began to open without hesitation or caution. He hadn't had to speak after all.
Now at last she was standing in front of him with nothing between the two of
them, nothing that could keep them apart any longer.
He stood silently, in awe of her. It felt as if her clear, shining green eyes
were pulling him forward, towards her glowing skin, her pretty feminine face.
She was only a little smaller than he, about five foot six and slim, with
straight brown hair cut into what was nearly a bob. She was about the same age
as he was, twenty-eight years old. He began to tremble, but not with fear any
more, with joy. She smiled and spoke to him. 'Hi. Do you have something for me?'
'I've come to take you home, Sam,' he told her. 'Just like I promised I would.'
Louise Russell smiled through her confusion. 'I'm sorry,' she said, 'I don't
think I understand.'
She saw his arm moving quickly towards her and tried to step back, away from
the threatening-looking black box he held in his hand, but he'd anticipated she
would and he stepped forward to match her stride. When the box touched her
chest it felt as if she'd been hit by a wrecking ball. Her feet left the ground
as she catapulted backwards and landed hard on the hallway floor. For a few
blissful moments she remembered nothing as her world turned to black, but
unconsciousness spared her from reality all too briefly. When her eyes opened
again she somehow knew she hadn't been out for long and that she was still
unable to command her own movements as her body remained in spasm, her teeth
clenched together, preventing her from screaming or begging.
But her eyes were her own and they could see everything as the man dressed like
a postman busied himself around her prone body. His stained, buckled teeth
repulsed her, as did the odour of his unwashed body. As his head passed close
to her face she could see and smell his short, unkempt brown hair, strands of
which had stuck to his forehead with sweat. His skin was pale and unhealthy and
appeared quite grey, marked with acne and chicken-pox scars. His hands were
bony and ugly, too long and thin, the skin almost transparent like an old
person's. Long dirty fingernails fidgeted at things he was taking from his
post-bag.
Everything about him made her want to turn from him, to push him away, but she
was trapped in the unrelenting grip of whatever he'd touched her with, unable
to do anything but watch the nightmare she was at the centre of. And all the
time he spoke to her using the name of another as the pictures adorning the
walls she knew so well stared down at her - happy photographs of her with her
husband, her family, her friends. How many times had she passed the pictures
and not taken time to look? Now, paralysed on the floor of her own home, her
sanctuary, the same pictures mocked her from above. This couldn't be happening,
not here - not in her home.
'It'll be all right, Sam,' he promised. 'We'll get you home as soon as we can,
OK. I'll get you in the car and then it's only a short trip. Please don't be
scared. There's no need to be scared. I'm here to look after you now.'
He was touching her, his damp hands stroking her hair, her face and all the
time he smiled at her, his heavy breaths invading her senses and turning her
stomach. She watched through wild eyes as he took hold of her arms and crossed
them at the wrists over her chest, his fingers lingering on her breasts. She
watched as he began to unroll a length of wide, black tape from a thick roll
he'd brought with him. She prayed silently inside her frozen body, prayed that
her husband would appear in the doorway and beat this animal away from her. She
prayed to be free from this hell and the hell that was about to happen because
now she knew, she understood clearly, he was going to take her with him. Her
pain and terror weren't going to be over quickly, in a place she had no fear
of. No, he was going to take her away from here, to a place she could only
imagine the horror of. A place she might never leave, alive or dead.
Through her physical and mental agony she suddenly began to feel her body's
control returning to her, the muscles relaxing, her jaw and hands beginning to
unclench, her spine beginning to loosen and straighten, the unbearable cramp in
her buttocks finally receding, but she was betrayed by her own recovery as her
lungs allowed a long breath to escape. He heard her.
'No, no. Not yet, Sam,' he told her. 'Soon, but for the moment you need to
relax and let me take care of everything. I swear to you everything will be
just the way we wanted it to be. You believe that, don't you, Sam?'
His voice was a menacing mix of apparent genuine concern, even compassion and a
threatening tone that matched the deep hate in his eyes. If she could have
answered him she would have agreed with anything he said, so long as he would
let her live. She felt rape was a certainty now, her mind instinctively
preparing her for that, but her very life, her existence, she would do
everything she could to preserve that: she would do anything he asked.
Carefully placing the tape on the floor next to her, he took a washing-up
liquid bottle from his bag and a rag. He squirted a clear liquid on the rag.
'Don't fight this, Sam. Just breathe normally, it's better that way.' Even
before the rag covered her mouth and nose she could smell its pungent hospital
aroma. She tried to hold her breath but could only manage a few seconds, then
the chloroform fumes were sweeping into her lungs and invading her bloodstream.
She sensed unconsciousness and welcomed it, but before the sanctity of sleep
could descend he pulled it away. 'Not too much,' he said. 'You can have some
more when you're in the car, OK?'
Louise tried to look at him, to focus on his movements, but his image was
distorted and his voice warped. She blinked to clear her sight as the first
effects of the chloroform began to lessen. She recovered in time to see him
binding her wrists together with the tape, the pain of the adhesive being
pressed into her skin cutting through even the chloroform. Then his hands moved
towards her face, holding something between them. She tried to turn away, but
it was useless as she felt the tape being plastered across her mouth, the panic
of impending suffocation pressing down on her empty lungs like a ton weight,
the effects of the chloroform preventing her thinking rationally or calming
herself so she could breathe.
'Relax,' he assured her. 'Relax and breathe through your nose, Sam.' She tried,
but panic and fear still refused to allow any normal sense of self-preservation
to ignite.
Suddenly he moved away from her, rifling through her handbag and then the set
of drawers next to the front door. Moments later he returned, having found what
he was looking for - her car keys.
'We need to go now, Sam,' he told her. 'Before they try and stop us again.
Before they try and keep us apart. We need to hide from them, together.'
He struggled to get her to her feet, pulling her torso off the ground by
gripping and tugging at her top, her near dead weight almost too much for his
slight physique to bear. Finally he managed to wrap her right arm around his
neck and began to haul her from the ground.
'You have to help me, Sam. Help me get you up.'
Through her confusion and fear she could hear the growing anger in his voice
and something told her she had to get up if she was to survive the next few
moments of this hell. She struggled to make her legs work, the tape around her
wrists preventing her from using her arms for balance or leverage, her unsteady
feet slipping on the wooden floor.
'That's good, Sam,' the madman encouraged her. 'Almost there, just a little bit
more.'
She sensed she was on her feet now, but the world was spinning wildly, making
her unsure of anything as she began to walk, moving forward into the bright
light beyond the home that should have been her refuge. The light and air
helped clear her mind further and she could see she was standing at the rear of
her own car while this man fumbled with her keys. She heard the alarm being
deactivated and the hatchback door popping open. 'You'll be safe in here, Sam.
Don't worry, we haven't got far to go.'
She realized his intentions but only managed to mumble 'No,' behind her taped
mouth before he grasped her shoulders and steered her towards the opening,
making her lose her balance and fall into the back of the car. She lay there,
her eyes pleading with the man not to take her from her home. It was the last
thing she remembered before the chloroform-soaked rag once more pressed into
her face, only this time he held it there until unconsciousness rescued her
from perdition.
He looked at her for as long as he dared, all the while smiling, almost
laughing with happiness. He had her back now, now and for ever. Pulling the
thin blanket from his sack, he carefully spread it over her prostrate body
before closing the hatch door. He jumped into the driver's seat and struggled
to put the key in the ignition, excitement making his hands shake almost
uncontrollably. At last he managed to start the car and drive away calmly,
slowly so as not to draw attention. Within minutes he would swap Louise
Russell's car for his own and then, soon after that, he would be at home with
Sam. At home with Sam for the rest of her life.
Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan sat inside court three at the Central
Criminal Court, otherwise known as the Old Bailey, named after the City of
London street it dominated. Despite all the romance and mystique of the famous
old court, Sean disliked it, as did most seasoned detectives. It was difficult
to get to and there was absolutely no parking within miles. Getting several
large bags of exhibits to and from the Bailey was a logistical nightmare no cop
looked forward to. Other courts across London might be more difficult to get a
conviction at, but at least they provided some damn parking.
It was Wednesday afternoon and he'd been hanging around the court doing little
more than nothing since Monday morning. Sean scanned the courtroom, oblivious
to its fine architecture. It was the people inside the room he was interested
in.
Finally the judge put the Probation Service report to one side and looked over
the court before speaking. 'I have considered all submissions in this matter,
and have given particular weight to the psychological reports in relation to Mr
Gibran's mental state now and at the time these crimes - these serious and
terrible crimes - were committed. In the case of this defendant, on the basis
of the opinions of the expert witnesses for the defence, namely those of the
psychologists who examined Mr Gibran, it is my conclusion that Mr Gibran is not
fit to stand trial at this time and should be treated for what are apparently
serious psychological conditions. Does anybody have any further submissions
before we conclude this matter?'
Sean felt his excitement turn to heavy disappointment, his stomach knotted and
empty. His attention was immediately pulled back to proceedings as the
prosecution barrister leapt to his feet.
'My Lord,' he pleaded. 'If I could draw your attention to page twelve of the
probation report, it may assist the court.'
The court fell silent again except for more shuffling of papers as the judge
found page twelve and read. After a few minutes he spoke to the prosecuting
barrister. 'Yes, thank you Mr Parnell, that does indeed assist the court.'
The judge looked to the back of the court where Gibran sat motionless and calm.
'Mr Gibran,' the judge addressed him, speaking as softly as distance would
allow, already treating him like a psychiatric patient instead of a calculating
murderer. 'It is the decision of the court that in this case you will not be
standing trial for the crimes you have been charged with. There exist serious
doubts as to your ability to comprehend what would be happening to you, and as
a result you would not be in a position to defend yourself adequately from
those charges. I have therefore decided that you should receive further
psychiatric treatment. However, in view of serious concerns expressed by the
Probation Service that you pose both a danger to yourself and the public ...'
Sean's emptiness left him as quickly as it had come, squeezed out by the
excitement again spreading through his core. He didn't care who the turnkeys
were, prison officers or nurses, so long as Gibran was locked away behind bars,
for ever.
The judge continued: '... I cannot ignore the risk you represent and must
balance that with your need to receive treatment. As a result I am ordering you
to be detained under the Mental Health Act in a secure psychiatric unit for an
indefinite period. Should you in the future be deemed to have made sufficient
progress towards recovery then it will be considered again as to whether you
should stand trial or indeed be released back into the community. Very good.'
With that the judge stood to signify an end to proceedings. Everyone in the
court rose simultaneously to show their respect. Sean was the last to his feet,
a suppressed smile thinning his lips as he looked to the dock and whispered
under his breath, 'Have fun in Broadmoor, you fuck.' His eyes remained locked
on Gibran's as the guards led the defendant from the dock towards the holding
cells beneath the old court. Sean knew it would almost certainly be the last
time he ever saw Sebastian Gibran.
The events of the past few months raced through Sean's mind as he gathered his
files, stuffing them into his old, worn-out briefcase that looked more like a
child's oversized satchel. He headed for the exit keen to avoid the handful of
journalists who had been allowed into the court, stopping en route to shake the
prosecuting counsel's hand and to thank him for his efforts, as unimpressive as
they were. He walked from the courtroom at a decent pace, scanning the
second-floor hallway for journalists or family members of Gibran's victims,
neither of whom he wanted to speak to now, at least not until he'd spoken to
one of his own. He walked briskly through the main part of the court open to
the public and into the bowels of the Bailey, a labyrinth of short airless,
lightless corridors that eventually led him to a Victorian staircase that he
climbed until he reached an inconsequential-looking door. Sean pushed the door
open and entered without hesitation, immediately hit by the noise of the
chitter-chatter that could barely be heard from the other side of the door.
The little 'police only' canteen was enshrined in the force's myth and legend,
as well as serving the best carvery meat in London. It didn't take long for
Sean to find Detective Sergeant Sally Jones sitting alone in the tiny warm
room, nursing a coffee. She sensed Sean enter and looked straight at him. He
knew she would be reading his face, seeking answers to her questions before she
asked them. Sean wound and weaved his way through the tightly packed tables and
chairs, apologizing when necessary for disturbing the rushed meals of busy
detectives. He reached Sally and sat heavily opposite her.
'Well?' Sally asked impatiently.
'Not fit to stand trial.'
'For fuck's sake!' Sally's response was loud enough to make the other
detectives in the canteen look up, albeit briefly. Sean looked around the room,
a visual warning to everyone not to interfere. 'Jesus Christ,' Sally continued.
'What's the fucking point?'
Sean noticed Sally unconsciously rubbing the right side of her chest, as if she
could feel Gibran hammering the knife into her all over again. 'Come on,
Sally,' he encouraged. 'We always knew this was a possibility. Once we'd seen
the psychiatric reports it was practically a certainty.'
'I know,' Sally agreed with a sigh, still rubbing her chest. 'I was fooling
myself that common sense might break out in the judicial system. I should have
known better.'
'It's entirely possible he is actually mad.'
'He is completely fucking mad,' Sally agreed again. 'But he's also absolutely
capable of standing trial. He knew what he was doing when he did what he did.
There were no voices in his head. He's as clever as he is dangerous, he's faked
his psych results, made a joke out of their so-called tests. He should stand
trial for what he did to ...' Her voice tailed off as she looked down at the
cold coffee on the table in front of her.
'He's not getting away with it,' Sean assured her. 'While we're sitting here
he's already on his merry way to the secure wing at Broadmoor. Once you go in
there you never come out.' Some of England's most notorious murderers and
criminals were locked up in Broadmoor; their faces flashed through Sean's mind:
Peter Sutcliffe aka the Yorkshire Ripper, Michael Peterson aka Charles Bronson,
Kenneth Erskine aka the Stockwell Strangler, Robert Napper the killer of Rachel
Nickell. Sally's voice brought him back.
'Gibran killed a police officer and damn nearly killed me. He'll be a bloody
god in there.'
'Don't be so sure.' Sean's phone began to vibrate in his jacket pocket. The
number said 'Withheld' meaning it was probably someone calling from their
Murder Investigation Team incident room back at Peckham police station. Sean
answered without ceremony and recognized the strange mixture of Glaswegian and
Cockney at the other end immediately. DS Dave Donnelly wouldn't have called
unless there was good reason.
'Guv'nor, Superintendent Featherstone wants to see you back here ASAP.
Apparently something's come up that requires our "specialized skill set".'
'Meaning we're the only soldiers left in the box,' Sean answered.
'So cynical for one so young.'
'We'll be about an hour, travelling time from the Bailey,' Sean informed him.
'We're all finished here anyway.'
'Finished already?' said Donnelly. 'That doesn't sound good.'
'I'll explain when I see you.' Sean hung up.
'Problem?' Sally asked.
'When is it ever anything else?'
Louise Russell's eyes began to flicker open, her mind desperately trying to
drag her from the chloroform-induced sleep that held nothing but nightmares of
smothering, darkness, a monster in her own home. She tried to see into the
gloom of her surroundings, the blinking of her eyes beginning to slow until
finally they remained frozen wide open with terror. My God, he had taken her,
taken her away from her home, her husband, her life. The fear fired through her
like electricity, making her want to jump up and run or fight, but the effects
of the chloroform weighed her down. She managed to push herself on to her hands
and knees before slumping on to her side, using her forearm as a makeshift
pillow. Her breathing was too rapid and irregular, her heartbeat the same. She
tried to concentrate on conquering her fear, to slow the rise and fall of her
chest. After a few minutes of lying still and calm her breathing became more
relaxed and her eyes better able to focus on her new surroundings.
There were no windows in the room and she couldn't see a door, only the foot of
a flight of stairs she imagined would lead to a door and a way out. One
low-voltage bulb hung from the high ceiling, smeared with dirt, its light just
enough for her to see as her eyes began to adjust. As far as she could tell the
room was little more than thirty feet wide and long, with cold unpainted walls
that looked as if they'd been whitewashed years ago, but now the red and greys
of old brick were showing through. The floor appeared to be solid concrete and
she could feel the cold emanating from it. The only noise in the room was water
running down a wall and dripping on to the floor. She felt as if she must be
underground, in a cellar or the old wartime bunker of a large house. The room
smelled of urine, human excrement and unwashed bodies and, more than anything
else, absolute fear.
Louise pulled the duvet that covered her up to her neck against the coldness of
her discoveries only to add to her chill. She looked under the duvet and
realized all her clothes had been taken and the duvet left in their place. The
duvet smelled clean and comforting against the cold stench of the room, but who
would do this, take her from her home, take her clothes, but care enough to
leave her a clean duvet to cover herself and keep out the cold? Who and why?
She closed her eyes and prayed he hadn't touched her. Her hand slowly moved
down her body and between her legs. Fighting the repulsion she touched herself
gently. She felt no pain, no soreness, and she was dry. She was sure he hadn't
raped her. So why was she here?
As her eyes adjusted further to the gloom she discovered she was lying on a
thin single mattress, old and stained. He had left a plastic beaker of what
looked and smelled like fresh water, but the thing she noticed most, the one
thing that brought tears stinging from her eyes, was when she realized she
wasn't just in this terrible room, she was locked in a cage inside the room.
All around her was thick wire mesh interwoven through its solid metal frame, no
more than six feet long and four feet wide. She was locked inside some sort of
animal cage, which meant there were only two possibilities: he'd left her there
to die, or he would be coming back, coming back to see the animal he'd caught
and caged, coming back to feed his prize, coming back to do whatever he wanted
to her.
She wiped her tears on the duvet and once again tried to take in all of her
surroundings, looking for any sign of hope. One end of her cage was clearly the
way out as it was blocked with a padlocked door. She also noticed what appeared
to be a hatch in the side, presumably for the safe passage of food between her
and her keeper. Fear swept up from the depths of her despair and overwhelmed
her. She virtually leapt at the door, pushing her fingers through the wire mesh
and closing her fists around it, shaking the cage wildly, tears pouring down
her cheeks as she filled her lungs ready to scream for help. She froze. She'd
heard something, something moving. She wasn't alone.
She looked deep into the room, her eyes almost completely adjusted to the low
light levels now, listening for more sounds, praying they wouldn't come, but
they did, something moving. Her eyes focused on where the sounds had come from
and she could see it, on the opposite side of the room, another cage, as far as
she could tell identical to the one she was locked inside. My God was it an
animal in there? Was she being kept with a wild animal? Was that why he'd taken
her, to give her to this animal? Driven by panic she started shaking her cage
door again, although she knew it was futile. The sound of a voice made her
stop. A quiet, weak voice. The voice of another woman.
'You shouldn't do that,' the voice whispered. 'He might hear you. You never
know when he's listening. If he hears you doing that he'll punish you. He'll
punish us both.'
Louise froze, the terrible realization she was not the first he'd taken
paralysing her mind and body. She lay absolutely still, listening,
disbelieving, waiting for the voice to speak again, beginning to think she had
imagined it. She could wait no longer. 'Hello,' she called into the gloom. 'Who
are you? How did you get here?' She waited for an answer. 'My name's Louise
Russell. Can you tell me your name?'
A short, sharp 'Sssssh,' was the only reply. Louise waited in silence for an
eternity.
'We need to help each other,' Louise told the voice.
'I said be quiet,' the voice answered, sounding afraid rather than angry.
'Please, he might be listening.'
'I don't care,' Louise insisted. 'Please, please. I need to know your name.'
Frustration brought more tears into her eyes. She waited, staring at the coiled
shape lying on the floor in the other cage, until eventually the shape began to
unfold and take on a human form.
Louise looked at the young woman now sitting, legs folded under herself in the
cage opposite. She looked around and confirmed to herself there were no more
cages in the room, her eyes soon returning to the other woman. Louise could see
that she was still pretty, despite her unkempt appearance - her short brown
hair tangled and her face pale and dirty, any signs of make-up long since
washed away by tears and sweat. She had bruises on her body and face, as well
as a badly split lip. She looked to be in her late twenties, slim and as far as
Louise could tell from a sitting position, about the same height as she was. In
fact almost everything about her was similar to Louise. She couldn't help but
notice the other woman had no mattress or duvet, no covers or bedding of any
kind, and all she had to wear were her filthy-looking knickers and bra. She
looked cold, despite the fact the room was reasonably warm, although Louise
couldn't see an obvious source of heating. She guessed the room might be next
to a boiler room or maybe the fact they were underground, as she suspected,
kept it warmer than outside. But why was this other woman apparently being
treated so much worse than she was? Was she being punished? Was that why she
wouldn't speak, for fear of further punishment? What would he do to her next -
remove her underwear, the final humiliation?
'My name's Karen Green.'
The sound of the voice froze Louise. It took her a few seconds to find her own
voice.
'I'm Louise. Louise Russell,' she answered. 'How long have you been here for?'
'I don't know. He's got my watch.'
'Can you remember what day it was when he took you?'
'Thursday morning,' Karen told her. 'What day is it now?'
'I don't know. I can't be sure. I remember it was Tuesday morning when he ...'
Louise struggled to find the word. 'When he attacked me. Do you know how long
I've been here for?'
'Quite a while. Maybe even a day. You've been out the whole time.'
Louise slumped against the wire mesh of her cage, trying to comprehend the fact
she could have been missing for a day and still not been found. And then a more
chilling thought swept over her; Karen had been missing for almost a week and
yet here she was, rotting in a mesh cage and, up until now, alone - except for
him.
'Do you know what he wants?' she asked Karen in a sudden panic. 'Why are we
here?'
'No. I don't know what he wants, but he always calls me Sam.'
Louise remembered he had called her Sam too. I've come to take you home, Sam.
Just like I promised I would. She felt the sickness rising in her stomach, the
foul, bitter bile pushing up through her throat and into her mouth. They were
replacements for someone else - replacements for whoever the hell Sam was.
Another wave of exhausting fear washed over her, a tangible, physical pain.
They were being held by someone who was insane, someone impossible to reason or
rationalize with. Hope drained from her.
Louise looked across at Karen and was reminded of her lack of clothing and the
only thing she feared almost as much as death itself. 'Has he touched you?' she
asked. There was a long silence and she watched Karen shrinking and coiling
into the foetal position, hugging herself silently.
'Not at first,' Karen answered in little more than a tearful whisper. 'When I
woke up he'd taken my clothes, but I don't think he'd touched me. He left me a
mattress and duvet, like he has for you, but later he took them away and he ...
he started to hurt me. At first he was almost gentle. He injected me with
something that stopped me struggling and then he did it. But now he's always
angry with me. He does it to punish me, but I haven't done anything wrong. I
haven't done anything to make him angry.'
Louise listened as if she was listening to her own future being described, her
body stiff with panic, her muscles cramping with tension. 'What happened to
your clothes?' she asked. 'You said he took them when he brought you here, but
he gave you back your underwear. Why didn't he give you the rest back?'
'These aren't mine,' Karen explained. 'My first few days here he let me wash,
then he gave me some clothes and made me wear them. But last night - I think it
was night, he came and took them off me, except for what I'm wearing. I didn't
know why he took them until he brought you here.'
Louise too realized why he had taken the clothes and knew that soon she would
be wearing them. She retched bile, capillaries in her eyes rupturing, leaving
them pink and glassy. The silence was suddenly shattered by the metallic clank
of something small and heavy hitting against what sounded like sheet metal. A
padlock being opened, Louise guessed, and for a second dared to believe it
could be their rescuers. The fear and dread she heard in Karen's voice soon
chased her hopes away as she instinctively backed into the furthest corner of
her cage.
'He's coming,' Karen told her. 'Don't speak to me now. He's coming.'
Sean and Sally entered their murder inquiry incident room at Peckham police
station shortly before four on Wednesday afternoon. The office was both
unusually busy and quiet, the detectives from Sean's team taking advantage of
the lull between new investigations to catch up on severely overdue paperwork.
They hadn't picked up a murder case in weeks, despite there being no shortage
to go around. The other Murder teams working South London were getting more
than a little annoyed that the regular flow of violent death seemed to be
passing Sean's team by. Though glad of the respite, Sean increasingly had the
feeling he was being saved for something he knew he wasn't going to like.
As they crossed the room he saw Detective Superintendent Featherstone through
the Perspex of his partitioned office. He caught DS Donnelly's eye as he walked
and with a barely noticeable twitch of his head indicated for Donnelly to
follow them. As Sean approached Featherstone, he began to get the feeling this
was the day he'd been dreading. They entered the office and Featherstone stood
to greet them. 'A little bird tells me it didn't go so good at court today,'
was Featherstone's hello.
'Depends on your point of view,' Sean answered.
'And what's yours?' Featherstone asked.
'Well, he'll probably spend the rest of his life banged up with the worst of
the worst in Broadmoor. That sounds like a result to me.'
'And who would disagree with that point of view?' Featherstone enquired. Sean
said nothing, but his eyes flicked towards Sally. 'Nobody gets out of
Broadmoor, Sally. That bastard will rot in there. Think of it this way: he's
got a life sentence and we didn't even have to go to trial. All it takes is a
couple of dimwits on the jury who like the look of him and he walks free. Trust
me, Sally, this is an outstanding result.'
Sally was unmoved. 'He should have stood trial,' was all she said.
Sean decided it was time to move the conversation on. Cops never dwelt on old
cases long. It didn't matter whether they'd had a good result or a disastrous
one; within a few hours of the court's decision the case, though not forgotten,
was put aside, rarely to be mentioned again. However, the investigation
surrounding Gibran had been significantly different from anything any of them
had dealt with. And bad as it had been for the rest of them, it had been much,
much worse for Sally - she had almost died, almost been killed in her own home.
Physically she had survived, just, but Sean felt that something had died inside
her. She'd spent two months in intensive care and then another three with the
hospital general population. A month later she'd gone back to work, but it was
too soon and she couldn't cope physically or mentally. A few weeks later she'd
returned again and he couldn't persuade her to take more time off, no matter
how hard he tried. That was two months ago; nine months after she was attacked.
She couldn't hope to have truly recovered in that time.
'There's no point dwelling on what did or didn't happen any longer than we have
to. What's done is done. We can't appeal a decision made at committal so we all
need to move on.' Sean glanced at Sally, who was silently staring at the floor,
then turned to Featherstone. 'I assume you've gathered us together for a
reason, boss.'
'Indeed. I've got a missing person for you to find.'
Featherstone's words were greeted with disbelieving silence.
'A what?' Sean queried.
'A missing person,' Featherstone repeated.
'Must be someone very important to have an MIT assigned to their case,'
Donnelly surmised.
'Important, no,' Featherstone told them. 'Or at least, not to the general
public. No doubt she's important to her family and friends, and certainly to
her husband who reported her missing.'
'Are we talking foul play?' Sean asked. 'Is the husband a suspect?'
'Yes to the foul play, no to the husband. He's not a suspect.'
'How long's she been missing for?' Sean continued.
'Best guess is yesterday morning. The husband, John Russell, left her at about
eight thirty to go to work and hasn't seen her since,' Featherstone explained.
'He got home at about six that evening and both his wife and her car were
missing. Her handbag was there, her mobile phone etc, but Louise wasn't.
Clearly something's happened to her and clearly she could be at risk.'
Sean didn't like what he was hearing. Women who ran off with secret lovers
didn't leave their handbags and phones behind. 'How far have we got?' he asked.
'About as far as I've just described,' Featherstone told them. 'The local
uniform inspector who picked up the missing persons report didn't like the look
of it so he passed it up to their CID office who in turn thought it might be
something we'd be interested in.'
'And when or if they find her body, we will be interested,' Donnelly chipped in.
'The idea is we find her before it comes to that,' Featherstone snapped back.
'That's not our brief,' Donnelly continued to argue. 'We deal with murders,
nothing else. Why don't they give it to the Serious Crime Group or even leave
it with the local CID?'
'Because,' Featherstone explained, 'the powers that be, sitting in their ivory
towers in Scotland Yard, have decided to trial a new policy with vulnerable
MISPERs who at first sight appear to have come to harm. It's an extension of
the murder suppression and prevention programme.'
'Then why not give it to the Murder Suppression Unit?' Donnelly refused to back
down. 'Seems tailor-made for them.'
'Not quite their remit,' Featherstone continued. 'They need a suspect to
concentrate on before they'll take a job.'
'And we need a body,' Donnelly insisted.
Sean broke the argument up with a question. 'How old is she?'
'Sorry?' Featherstone's mind was still tussling with Donnelly.
'How old is the missing woman?'
Featherstone flicked through the file he'd been holding throughout the meeting.
'Thirty.'
'Prime running-away-with-another-man age,' Donnelly sniffed.
'She hasn't run away,' Sally joined in. 'A woman wouldn't leave so many
personal belongings behind unless something had happened.'
'Like what?' Donnelly asked.
'Like she was taken,' Sally answered.
Sean sensed another argument was about to flare. 'We'll look into it,' he
announced.
'What?' Donnelly turned to him, indignant.
'Look at it this way,' Sean told Donnelly. 'If we can find her before something
happens to her, we'll save ourselves a lot of work.'
'Good,' Featherstone said. 'I want to be regularly updated on this one, Sean.
The powers that be are keen for a positive result to keep the media off their
backs.' He handed the missing persons report to Sean who passed it on to Sally.
'There are a few photographs of her in the file. The only distinguishing mark
is a scar from when she had her appendix removed when she was a teenager.'
'Get some copies of this run up please, Sally, and spread them around the
team,' Sean told her. 'Dave can give you a hand.'
Donnelly looked as displeased as he felt. 'Waste of our time,' he insisted.
'She'll be home in a couple of days smelling of aftershave and demanding a
divorce.'
Sean gave him a hard look. 'I don't think so,' was all he said. Donnelly knew
when to stop pushing and left the office in Sally's wake.
Featherstone waited until they were well out of earshot before speaking again.
'How's Sally?' he asked.
Sean sucked a breath in through his teeth. 'She's getting there,' he answered.
'Bollocks,' snapped Featherstone. 'Any fool can see she's struggling,
unsurprisingly.'
'She'll be OK,' Sean assured him, a little disappointed in Featherstone's lack
of faith in Sally's ability to recover. 'She needs some time and a decent
investigation to take her mind off what happened, that's all.'
'Is that why you so readily agreed to take on a missing persons inquiry?'
Featherstone asked. 'To help Sally.'
Sean avoided the question. 'I didn't realize I had a choice.'
'For what it's worth,' Featherstone told him, 'you did have a choice.' Sean
said nothing as Featherstone headed out of his office. 'Make sure you keep me
posted and if there's anything I can do, give me a call. I know you're allergic
to the media, so if you need me to deal with them, no problem.'
Featherstone was halfway out the door when Sean stopped him with a question.
'Do you think she's already dead? Is that why you want me to take this on?'
'I was hoping you would tell me that, Sean,' Featherstone answered. 'And her
name's Louise Russell and she's someone's wife, someone's daughter - and if we
do our jobs properly, one day she might be someone's mother. I think we all
need to remember that, don't you?'
Sean said nothing as he watched Featherstone close the door behind him.
He suddenly felt very alone, sitting in his small warm office, surrounded by
cheap furniture and out-dated computers with monitors that belonged in a
museum. Even the view out of his window offered nothing but the sight of
sprawling Peckham council estates and the travellers' caravan site on the
wasteland next to the police station itself. He started to think about Louise
Russell, to imagine what had happened to her and why. Where was she now? Was
she still alive and if so why? Had somebody taken her, taken her to do horrific
things to her? Should they expect a ransom note? No, he didn't think so. This
felt like madness, as if madness had come into Louise Russell's life without
any warning or reason.
Sean rubbed his face and tried to chase the questions away. She's a missing
person, he told himself. Stop treating her like she's dead. But he knew it was
pointless - he'd already begun. He'd already begun to think like him. Like the
madman who'd taken her.
2
Natural light flooded down the staircase and into the room, its brightness
temporarily blinding Louise Russell as she blinked to adjust to its harshness,
before the noise of a door being quickly but carefully closed took the light
away. Louise's eyes welcomed back the twilight she had grown accustomed to and
looked across the room at Karen Green, who was sinking further into the corner
of her cage, her fingers curling through and around the wire mesh as if she was
bracing herself, anchoring herself against a tide that was about to sweep her
away. Louise could hear her trying to stifle her tears as the footsteps on the
stairs grew closer. She listened to those footsteps approaching, but they
weren't heavy and dramatic, they were light and made little more than a
shuffling, scraping sound that filled her with a fear worse than anything she'd
ever experienced.
It was as if her senses were tuned in to the minutest sound, shade, smell,
movement in her prison. This was the darkest most desperate place and time of
her life, yet she'd never felt so alive. She found herself mimicking her fellow
captive as she backed into the furthest corner of her cage, the beat of her own
throbbing pulse almost drowning out the gentle footsteps that tentatively crept
down towards them.
After what seemed both an agonizingly long time and a desperately short time he
appeared at the bottom of the stairs and stepped falteringly into the makeshift
dungeon. Louise watched as he paused before slowly moving inside, keeping close
to the wall. As far as she could make out he was wearing a dark or grey
tracksuit top and bottoms. Still he said nothing as he moved deeper into the
room, then suddenly disappeared as if by magic. A second later she heard the
springy click of a cord being pulled, followed by the yellow glow of a
low-wattage bulb spilling into the subterranean room. The light wasn't strong
enough to trouble her eyes or vision, but it made a huge difference to what she
could see clearly. She saw that he'd walked behind a fabric screen, the type
used on hospital wards to provide some degree of privacy.
It was like watching a silhouette in a puppet show, as he stood on the other
side of the screen, his legs still, his arms and hands moving, busying
themselves with something that made dull chinking sounds. Louise heard the rasp
of a stiff tap being turned and then running water. He was cheerfully humming a
tune she didn't recognize, a sound more terrifying than any scream or screech
in the night. Her mouth was unbearably dry with fear, her throat glued shut
with rising panic, her eyes as wide as a wild animal that knows it's about to
be torn to pieces by its tormentors, her fully dilated pupils increasing her
night vision at a time when she almost wished she could see nothing, hear
nothing and feel nothing.
Louise watched as the silhouette became still, although somehow she knew he had
turned to face them. She could hear him breathing deeply, as if he was
preparing himself to walk on to a stage and meet his audience. Finally he
stepped from behind the screen, this unimpressive man, average height, too
slim, with scruffy brown hair and waxy skin. But to her he was vile monster, a
hideous beast that threatened her in every way - her dignity, her freedom, her
very existence. How could this wretch suddenly have so much power over her?
She could see he was smiling, a non-threatening, friendly smile. She remembered
his stained teeth and the stink of his breath from when he took her, the memory
pushing vomit-tasting saliva from her stomach into her mouth. Other memories
rushed forward now - the smell of his unwashed hair, the stench of his stale
sweat infested with stinking microbes, and his hands, his witch's hands,
lingering too long on her breasts. Without warning the deluge of noise from her
heart and blood fell silent. She realized he was speaking and it was enough to
make her stop breathing, for her heart to stand still, just for a second.
'Sam? Are you OK? I brought you something; something to drink and a bite to eat
if you can manage it. It's not much, but you'll feel better if you can manage
to eat and drink a little.' He began to walk towards her carrying a tray on
which he balanced a plastic mug of water and plate with a sandwich that looked
like something a child would make. He walked in a crouched position as he
circled her cage, peering in through the wire bars, smiling all the time while
his eyes, wide and excited, darted over her body, stabbing her with a thousand
needle-points and making her skin crawl.
'I'll have to put the tray through the hatch,' he told her. 'It's better that
way, until you understand more. You know what I mean, don't you, Sam? You
always understood what I meant, even when nobody else did. That's why we're
supposed to be together.'
He took a small key from his tracksuit pocket and unlocked the padlock securing
the bolt to the cage's hatch. Louise watched his every move, wary of his hand
suddenly stretching out for her through the hatch, but he merely pushed the
tray in and held it, waiting for her to take it. 'Take the tray,' he told her.
'It's all for you. I'll come back for it later, when you've had enough.' Louise
shuffled forward slowly, tentatively, her eyes never leaving his as she took
the tray, which she immediately placed on the ground before shuffling back into
the furthest corner of her prison.
'Try some,' he encouraged. 'Drink first though, the chloroform can leave you a
bit dehydrated.'
She picked up the plastic mug and looked at it suspiciously, trying to detect
any scent that didn't belong in an innocent drink of water. Finally she sipped
it, a sense of relief soon overtaken by the clean, cold taste of fresh water.
Suddenly aware how thirsty she was, she gulped it down quickly.
'Good, eh?' he said. 'Don't drink too much too quickly though, it might make
you feel sick.'
Louise stopped drinking and began to dab some of the water around her lips and
face, pausing as she remembered the woman locked in the other cage. Was she
strong enough to speak to him yet? She decided she needed to try, do something
to establish a relationship. She'd seen a programme about a kidnapped woman
who'd built a bond with her captor that ultimately saved her life when he could
no longer bring himself to kill her as he'd planned. 'What about her?' she
managed to ask, barely recognizing her own weak, scratchy voice.
'Who?' he asked, his smile twitching now, blinking on and off.
Louise looked towards the other animal cage then back to him. 'Her. Karen. She
said her name was Karen.'
He stared coldly into Louise's face, his smile nothing more than a memory now.
'You mustn't talk to her. She's a liar and a whore. She made me think she was
you, but she isn't.'
Louise watched his face contorting with hatred, his lips pulled back over his
teeth like a hyena laughing, the veins in his neck swollen and blue with anger.
Sensing that she had put Karen in real and immediate danger, she hurried to
undo her mistake. 'No,' she told him. 'She hasn't said anything, I promise. I
made her tell me her name. It wasn't her fault. Please, there's too much water
here for me. You can give her the rest of this. Please.'
Her desperate attempts to calm his anger towards the woman cowering and
whimpering in her cage on the other side of the room seemed to go unheard. He
was stalking across the floor, his eyes fixed on Karen.
'The whore gets nothing!' he shouted, his voice echoing hollowly in the brick
tomb. 'The whore gets nothing, except what all whores really want.'
Louise covered her ears with her hands, instinctively curling herself into a
tight ball pressed against the wire mesh, watching in horror as he drew closer
to the only person in the world who shared her nightmare.
'It wasn't her fault,' she forced herself to call out, somehow certain his
anger would not be turned on her. 'Leave her alone, please. She's done nothing
wrong.' Tears slid down her cheeks, salty through dehydration. Strands of dry,
sticky saliva stretched across her mouth like a spider's web as she silently
pleaded with him to stop.
He fumbled in his trouser pocket, trying to remove an object that was bulkier
than the keys he had produced earlier. Whatever it was caught on the fabric of
his pocket and he tugged violently to free it, his eyes never leaving Karen
Green's cage. 'I'll give you what you fucking want, whore.'
Louise tried to close her eyes, tried to look away as Karen desperately pushed
herself into the wire at the back of her cage, trying to find a way to escape
the approaching madness. She could see what he was holding now. It was the
strange box he'd touched her with when she'd first opened the door to him - the
thing that had left her paralysed and helpless.
Almost dropping the key in his fury and excitement, he struggled to unlock
Karen's cage, his words slurred and incoherent. Finally he opened the hatch and
leaned into the cage. Karen's scream pierced through the hands that covered
Louise's ears and penetrated into every millimetre of her body.
Karen was pressed hard against the wire, the skin on her face patterned with
the squares of the wire cage, blood running down her chin from the split lip
that opened raw and painful as she tried to push her body through the tiny
holes, all the time imploring him to stop in her faint, defeated voice. 'Stop.
Please stop.' But he didn't. Instead he kept getting closer to her, inch by
inch. Moving cautiously, as if she was a wild animal that might turn on him, he
stabbed out at her with the stun-gun. He repeated the action several times,
missing his target and then backing away, extending her misery and dread, until
finally he struck her at the base of her spine.
For a split second Karen's body went rigid and as hard as mahogany, then she
collapsed in a jerking, convulsing wreck. Still he maintained his distance,
watching her agony with a slight smile spreading across his lips until her
convulsions began to subside. Then he moved in, rolling her on to her back and
pulling her legs straight. Louise again tried to look away, but couldn't, any
more than she could have looked away from a crystal ball showing her own
future. She watched as he tugged and wrenched at his tracksuit pants, exposing
his white buttocks, then his long fingers reached for Karen, pulling her filthy
knickers down to her knees and shuffling forward as he lay on top of her.
Louise heard him moan as he entered Karen, his buttocks moving rhythmically,
slowly at first then quickly, brutally, guttural animalistic noises filling the
room. Karen, who had stopped convulsing, was lying under him motionless,
sobbing, her eyes wide and staring at Louise, accusing her.
Less than a minute later, screams of joy and pleasure signified his climax. His
cries faded away to silence. No one spoke and no one moved for what felt like
hours, then he tugged at his trousers until they covered his buttocks and still
swollen genitals. He backed out of the cage without a word, replacing the lock
and bolt, coughing to clear his throat before speaking. He was calm now, but
appeared embarrassed, his eyes avoiding Louise's.
'I'm sorry,' he told her. 'I'm sorry you had to see that, but that's what she
does. She tricks me. She makes me do it. She knows I don't want to. She knows I
don't like being with her. She makes me feel dirty. I won't let her trick me
again. Not now you're here, Sam. I promise,' he told her. 'I have to leave you
for a while. I'll come back later for the tray. Try to eat something.'
He turned off the light and moved to the staircase, head bowed as if ashamed.
She listened to the slow, soft footsteps as they climbed the unseen staircase
and then the clank of metal as the unseen door was unlocked. Again there was a
flood of daylight that stung her already sore, red eyes. Then gloom once more
as the door gently closed.
Louise peered through the gloom towards the figure lying motionless on the
concrete floor of her cage making no attempt to cover herself with the little
clothing she had. She whispered into the darkness: 'Karen. Karen. Are you all
right? Please, Karen. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.'
But there was no reply. Instead Karen curled into a tight ball, hugging
herself, and began to sing a barely audible song. Louise struggled to make out
the words. When she did, she realized it wasn't a song Karen was singing, it
was a nursery rhyme.
Sally and Sean pulled up outside 22 Oakfield Road, the home of Louise and John
Russell, early on Wednesday evening. Sally saw an ugly but practical modern
townhouse. Sean saw much more - a concealed front door providing privacy from
neighbours and passers-by, state-of-the-art double-glazed windows that were
virtually impossible to break in through, a street full of near-identical
houses inhabited by neighbours who never spoke to one another, a street where
only men who lingered too long and youths clad in hooded tracksuits would draw
attention.
'Why's this place not been preserved for forensics?' he demanded.
'No one's saying anything happened here,' Sally told him, defending someone
else's decision as if it were her own. 'This is just the last place anyone saw
her.'
'"Anyone" meaning her husband?'
'Apparently.' Only day one of the investigation and Sally already sounded weary.
They abandoned their car at the side of the road and walked the short distance
to the driveway of the house. Sean stopped and looked around, silently
surveying every inch of the house and street, looking up as well as at eye
level. Only cops looked up as they walked. Many of the surrounding houses had
lights on although it wasn't fully dark - people still used to the habits of
winter. Sean searched the windows without thinking, his eyes waiting to be
attracted to something they hadn't yet seen. Across the street a curtain
twitched as his eyes passed - a neighbour who'd been spying on them guiltily
trying to disguise their curiosity. Good, Sean thought, nosy neighbours were
often the best witnesses. Sometimes they were the only witnesses. He made a
mental note to shake up the neighbour's world as soon as he'd finished with
Russell.
He turned towards the house and saw Sally was already waiting for him at the
front door. Impatience was not a trait he'd associated with Sally until Gibran
almost ripped the life from her. He reasoned that, like most people who'd
sailed too close to death, she could no longer bear to waste a second of life.
He strode to the front door faster than he wanted to and reached for the bell
before hesitating and using his fist to pound on the door instead.
'That doorbell must have been pressed a hundred times since she was taken,'
Sally told him. 'If indeed she was taken. Any forensic use it might have had is
long gone.'
'Good practice is good practice,' was all he said.
A silhouette inside the house moved quickly to the door and opened it without
caution. A tall slim white man in his early thirties stood in front of them. He
looked tired and despondent. Everything about him reeked of desperation, not
least the way he rushed to the door. He looked disappointed to see them. Sean
knew he'd been hoping it was his wife, coming home to beg forgiveness for her
infidelity, forgiveness he was all too willing to offer. 'Yes?' he said, his
voice no less strained than his body and face.
'John Russell?' Sally asked.
'Yes,' he confirmed.
'Police,' Sally informed him bluntly. 'We're here about your wife.'
Sean saw the blood drain from Russell's face and knew what he was thinking.
'It's all right,' he tried to explain. 'She's still missing.' He watched
Russell start to breathe again and held his warrant card at eye level so that
even through his panic Russell could see it clearly. 'Detective Inspector
Corrigan and this is Detective Sergeant Jones.' Sally's face remained blank.
'May we come in?'
Locked in his moment of private torment, Russell took a few seconds to react
and step aside. 'Sorry. Of course. Please, please come in.' He closed the door
behind them and led the way to a comfortable kitchen-diner.
Sean glanced at the bric-a-brac of the couple's lives: photographs of holidays
together, more elaborately framed photographs of their wedding taking the prime
spots on side tables and hallway walls. They looked happy living their
un-extraordinary lives, content with their lot, blissfully ignorant of the
things he saw every day. He guessed they were planning to have children soon.
'Would either of you like a drink?' Russell offered.
'No thanks. We're fine.' Sean spoke for both of them. 'We just wanted to ask
you a few questions about your wife, Louise.'
'OK,' Russell agreed. Sean could tell he was nervous, but not in a way that
suggested guilt.
'When did you last see her?' Sean asked.
'Tuesday morning. I left for work at about eight thirty and she was still here,
but when I got home she wasn't.'
'And that was unusual?'
'She nearly always got home before me. I work longer hours.'
'Did she say she was going out after work? Maybe you didn't hear her when she
told you. Maybe you were distracted. We all live busy lives, Mr Russell,' Sean
suggested. 'My wife reckons I only hear about a third of what she actually
says.'
'No,' Russell insisted. 'We don't live like that. If she'd been going somewhere
or if she was going to be late she would have made sure I knew and I would have
remembered. This is all a waste of time anyway. She didn't go out for a night
out with her friends and she hasn't run off with another man. If you knew her,
you wouldn't think that, you'd be looking for her.'
'We are looking for her,' Sean reassured him. 'That's why we're here and that's
why I have to ask some difficult questions.' Russell didn't respond. 'Even the
people closest to us sometimes have secrets. If we can find out any secrets
Louise had then maybe we can find her.'
'Louise didn't have secrets from me,' Russell insisted.
'What about you from her?' Sally asked clumsily. It was a question that needed
to be put, but not now. Not yet.
Sean swallowed his frustration with Sally. 'Maybe something that seemed
innocent to you, but that you didn't want her to know, something that might
have upset her enough to make her want to be alone for a few days?'
'Such as?' Russell asked.
'Anything,' Sean answered. 'An old girlfriend contacting you or a large bill
you've been hiding from her because you didn't want her to worry about it.
Maybe she thought it was a breach of trust.'
'No,' Russell slammed the door of possibility shut. 'There are no old
girlfriends, no money worries. We're careful.'
Sean took a few seconds to consider before making his final judgement. Russell
had nothing to do with his wife's disappearance and couldn't help Sean find
her. There would be no secret lover and she wasn't going to return in a couple
of days telling anyone who would listen that she'd needed a little time alone.
Something terrible had happened to her, something beyond her husband's
imagination, beyond almost everyone's imagination. But not Sean's.
Despite the warmth of the central heating Sean felt the hairs on his arms and
neck begin to tingle and rise. He found himself looking back towards the front
door. He saw the faceless silhouette of a man coming through the door, knocking
Louise Russell to the ground, somehow overpowering her and taking her, dragging
her from her own home, the place she felt safest.
He didn't know how many seconds he'd been absent for when Sally's voice dragged
him back.
'Guv'nor?'
'What?' he replied like a man caught daydreaming.
'Anything else we need to know?'
'Yes ...' Sean turned to Russell. 'You said her car was missing too?'
'That's right,' Russell answered. 'That was when I realized something was
wrong, when I saw her car wasn't on the drive. I just had a bad feeling. Then I
came inside and found her handbag and phone, but she wasn't here. I've already
given your colleagues a description of her car and registration number.' Sean
glanced at Sally, who confirmed with a quick nod of her head. 'Is there
anything else you need?' Russell asked tiredly.
'No,' Sean told him. It was obvious the guy had had enough of giving the same
answers to the same questions. 'You've been really helpful, thanks.' Russell
said nothing. 'If I could just ask you to try and avoid the hallway by the
front door as much as possible until I can get our forensics people to have a
look at it.' Russell looked at him accusingly. 'I like to be sure,' Sean
reassured him. 'Check every possibility.'
'If you think it's necessary,' Russell agreed.
'Thank you,' Sean said. 'And one last thing, before I forget. Who is her best
friend? Who would she confide in?'
'Me,' Russell told them. 'She would confide in me.'
Sean and Sally heard the door close softly behind them as they walked down the
Russells' driveway without looking back. Sally spoke quietly: 'Well?'
'He's got nothing to do with it and he can't help us find her any more than he
already has. We both know she hasn't run away, not without her bag and phone.'
'We're not all addicted to handbags,' Sally reprimanded him, holding out her
arms to indicate the absence of a bag.
'Phone?' Sean asked, indicating the mobile clutched in Sally's guilty hand.
'OK,' Sally conceded. 'So what happened?'
'I don't know yet,' Sean answered. 'He either did her in the hallway by the
front door and took her body away in her own car, or he took her alive.'
'He?' Sally challenged. 'You sound like you already know him.' Sean merely
shrugged in reply. 'So what next?' she continued.
'I need you to get hold of Roddis. Have him examine the house properly,
concentrating on the hallway, front door, etc. The scene, if it is one, has
been well and truly trampled, but you never know your luck. And make sure her
car details are circulated if they haven't been already, then get them marked
for forensic preservation - that won't have been done yet, you can put your
mortgage on it.'
'I'll see to it,' Sally assured him while following his eyeline across the
street to the house he was staring at. 'Something I should know?'
'A twitching curtain,' Sean told her. 'When we first pulled up, someone was
watching us. The question is, why?' He started walking towards the house,
offering no explanation. Sally followed.
Sean used the doorbell this time and waited impatiently - he already knew
someone was at home. There was no glass in the front door, just a spyhole.
Clearly the occupier preferred security to natural light. Sean noticed the
pristine Neighbourhood Watch sticker attached to the inside of the front-room
window. He went to press the doorbell again, but delayed when he felt a
presence on the other side of the wooden barrier. They listened as at least two
good, heavy deadbolts were withdrawn. Not many people used security like that
when they were at home and awake.
The door fell back into the warm house revealing an elderly man in his late
sixties or early seventies. He was still quite tall, about Sean's height, and
he held his back straight military-style, although Sean doubted he'd ever
actually been a soldier. He wore smart grey trousers and a brown cardigan over
a blue shirt that contrasted with the reddening skin pulled over his bony,
angular face. His hair was grey and wavy, but still had traces of the blond
that had only recently deserted him. He knew who they were but asked them
anyway: 'Who are you and what do you want?'
Sean had already formed a dislike to him. Sally had no opinion; to her he was
one more face, one more witness to be spoken to, assessed and categorized
before she could escape to the solitude of her own home, away from prying eyes
and stupid questions about how she was coping.
Holding up his warrant card for the wannabe soldier, Sean announced: 'DI
Corrigan and this is my colleague DS Jones. We're making some local inquiries
about a missing person. Mind if we ask you a couple of questions?'
'Do I know this missing person?'
'I don't know,' Sean answered. 'Do you? Louise Russell, she lives across the
road, number twenty-two?' Sean didn't let him answer. 'Do you mind if we come
inside? This inquiry's at a sensitive stage, you understand.'
The man stepped aside reluctantly. 'Fine, but this won't take too long, will
it?'
'No.' Sean passed by him into the neat and orderly house, immediately looking
around, his eyes studying every detail. 'Sorry, I didn't catch your name,' Sean
prompted as Sally entered the hallway, making a little too much of checking her
watch.
'Levy,' the man answered. 'Douglas Levy.' Sean's eyes turned from scanning the
house to surveying the occupier, dissecting him layer by layer. Was this the
man responsible for Louise Russell's disappearance? Had he watched her every
day from behind his twitching curtain, fantasized about her, about having her,
taking her, doing things to her that no woman would ever let him do to them?
Had he masturbated while thinking about her, did he take himself in hand while
he watched her from the window, ejaculating embarrassingly into his own hand,
too overcome by his excitement to fetch tissues from the bathroom before he
started? And then, after months, maybe even years, had he decided he needed
more? Maybe just to touch her once, maybe a kiss, an innocent kiss on the
cheek, something to add spice to his fantasies and masturbating. Had he gone
too far, touched her in the wrong place, tried to kiss her too hard until she
started to scream and fight, and he panicked, hit her, hit her hard and all the
time the excitement rising in his groin, the material of his underpants
tightening uncomfortably around his swelling penis and then she was unconscious
and he was inside her, grunting and rutting like a pig until all too quickly it
was over and then he had to kill her, he didn't want to, but he had to, to stop
her telling everyone what he had done, his hands closing around her throat, her
eyes bulging, the whites turning red as a thousand unseen capillaries ruptured.
Sean found himself studying Levy's hands for scratch marks. There were none,
but Sean knew he was at least partly right about him.
'Do you live alone, Mr Levy?' Sean asked.
'I don't see what that's got to do with anything,' Levy responded, indignant.
'No,' Sean agreed, his question unwittingly answered. 'I see you're a member of
the local Neighbourhood Watch.'
'Actually, Inspector, I'm the coordinator of the Neighbourhood Watch. You can
check with the local police if you don't believe me.'
'Why wouldn't I believe you?' said Sean, enjoying the discomfort creeping over
Levy's features.
Sally looked on, disinterested and excluded, already convinced Levy was a waste
of time as a witness or a suspect.
'As coordinator of the Neighbourhood Watch, you no doubt keep an eye on things,
look out for strangers in the street, keep a watch on your neighbours' houses
when they're at work and you're at home alone ... I'm sorry,' Sean finished
with an insincere smile, 'I've made an assumption you're retired.'
'I am,' Levy told him, straightening his back as if he was proud of his retired
status, although Sean could tell it was killing him, knowing that he'd passed
his usefulness sell-by-date.
'And did you?' Sean asked.
'Did I what?' Levy was struggling to keep up with the conversation, his pink
face growing redder with anger and frustration.
'See anything or anyone in the street the last few days that made you
suspicious?'
'I don't spend all my time looking out of the window,' Levy protested.
'But when you hear something, like a car coming or going, you do,' Sean
suggested.
Levy grew more flustered. 'Sometimes ... maybe ... I don't know, not really.'
'But you heard us arrive earlier and you watched us through the window. So you
like to keep an eye on the comings and goings of the street, yes?'
'What's the point of all of this?' Levy snapped. 'I know nothing about the
woman across the street's disappearance. I didn't hear anything and I didn't
see anything.'
Sean studied him in silence for as long as he felt Levy could stand. 'OK,' he
said finally. 'Just one more thing. Did anyone ever arrive at the Russells'
house after Mr Russell had left for work but before Mrs Russell set off?'
'Not that I noticed.' Levy answered with his eyes closed as if he could somehow
block Sean out of his consciousness.
'Did they ever argue or fight that you know of?' Sean continued.
'No,' Levy insisted. 'They're a decent, quiet couple who keep themselves to
themselves. Now please, I'm very busy and I think I've helped you as much as I
can so--'
'Of course,' Sean agreed. Levy opened the door a little too quickly and moved
aside, waiting for them to leave. 'Thanks for your time.'
They walked past him and into the growing darkness. The street was quiet with
the onset of night and their words would travel too far if they spoke outside,
so they waited until they were back in the car. Sally spoke first.
'Do you mind telling me what that was all about?' she asked. 'Given that I
doubt even you are seriously considering Levy as a suspect.'
'Why not? Lives alone, bored out of his skull, nothing to do, nothing to look
forward to. The devil finds work for idle hands. He watches her, fantasizes
about her until finally he can't resist it any more so he waits for the husband
to go to work and decides to pay Mrs Russell a little visit. But he goes too
far and before he knows it he's a killer. It's nothing we haven't seen.'
'Christ!' Sally exclaimed. 'Even if he did fantasize about her - which I doubt
- he would never have the balls to try and do something about it. If there's
one thing that terrifies the likes of Levy it's change. He would never risk
upsetting his pointless life.'
Sean could see that Sally had had enough. 'Fair point. I guess I just didn't
like him. I guess I just don't like any of them.'
'Any of who?' Sally asked.
'The stuffed shirt Neighbourhood Watch brigade. We might as well get rid of the
lot of them for all the good they do. Stickers in windows and monthly meetings,
for fuck's sake - who are they kidding? Some madman came to this street and
killed or kidnapped a woman right under their pious noses and nobody saw a damn
thing. Neighbourhood Watch? Bunch of sanctimonious wankers.' Tiredness suddenly
swept over him, reminding him to check his watch. It was gone eight. By the
time they got back to Peckham and tidied up the first day of inquiries and
prepared for the next it would be close to eleven. He had a chance of making it
home before midnight.
'So you're sure then?' Sally asked. 'She's either already dead or someone's
taken her and she probably soon will be.'
'I'm not sure of anything,' Sean lied. 'Let's head back to the office. It's
getting late, there's nothing else we can do tonight. In the morning you go see
her parents and I'll have a word with her workmates, just in case we're missing
something.'
'Fine,' was all Sally replied.
Sean forced himself to ask her the obvious question, fearful she might answer
truthfully, making him listen to her fears and pain, but Sally wasn't about to
share herself with anyone yet. 'Sore and tired,' she told him. 'I need tramadol
and sleep.'
'Sort out forensics for the house and check her car details have been
circulated and then get yourself home,' he instructed her. 'Don't stick around
for anything else.' He watched as Sally again subconsciously rubbed her chest
where the knife had entered. He could imagine the scars beneath her jacket and
blouse, still red, raised and ugly; one above her right breast and one below.
It would be years before they faded, but they would always be clearly visible.
'I will,' Sally promised. 'And thanks.'
'Don't thank me,' Sean insisted. 'Just look after yourself.'
Louise Russell sat in the gloom of her cage, knees pulled up to her chin, arms
wrapped around her lower legs, hugging the thin duvet close and rocking
subconsciously as she tried to judge the time. She guessed it must be the early
hours of the morning, whereas in fact it was earlier, not quite ten at night.
She'd tried to get her fellow captive to talk, but Karen Green just lay
motionless on the floor of her wire prison. Louise already suspected that if
either of them were ever to see the sun again they would have to work together.
Somehow she needed to break through to Karen and persuade her to talk.
The sudden noise of metal striking metal fired her alert, her eyes open
impossibly wide, like a frightened deer, her heart beating like a cornered
rat's. She heard Karen shuffling around in her cage, scratching at the floor
looking for somewhere she would never find to hide. The noise and movement
fleetingly reminded Louise of the pet mouse she was allowed to keep as a child,
always searching in vain for a way to escape its wire world.
Gripped by fear, Louise waited for more sounds. She heard the heavy metal door
swinging open and waited for the flood of light to sting her eyes, but it never
came and she remembered it was night. A thin beam threw a circle of light on to
the floor at the bottom of the staircase. As the soft footsteps made their way
down towards them the ray of light bounced around. He stepped into the room and
swung the torch slowly and deliberately from one side to the other, ensuring
everything was as it should be, exactly as he'd left it. Temporarily blinded,
Louise could no longer see his silhouette, only the harsh glare of the
torchlight touching her skin, making her shudder as surely as the touch of his
hands. She couldn't see his face, but she was sure he was smiling.
A minute or two later the light behind the screen clicked on, the string cord
swinging after he released it. Louise squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds
while she prayed this was all a nightmare, an unusually long and realistic
nightmare, but one that must end soon. If she could only chase the sleep away
and wake herself then this would be over. It would leave her shaken for the
rest of the morning, but by lunchtime it would have faded like a watercolour
left in the rain. But when she dared open her eyes again he was standing there,
peering into her very being, a torch in one hand and a tray in the other with a
happy smile on his face.
He carefully placed the things he was carrying on what she assumed was some
kind of table behind the screen and began to nervously approach her, one or two
small steps at a time, his right hand outstretched in front of him palm up, as
if he was approaching a stranger's dog. 'It's OK, Sam,' he tried to reassure
her. 'It's me. I didn't wake you, did I? I didn't mean to disturb you. I only
wanted to make sure you were all right.' He fell silent as if expecting her to
answer. She didn't. 'You should be feeling a lot better by now, the effects of
the chloroform should pretty much have gone.' Still she didn't answer him, but
she watched him, watched his every tiny move. He gestured to the tray hidden
behind the screen. 'I've brought you more food and something to drink, a Diet
Coke - I remembered it's your favourite.'
Some deep survival instinct told her she had to answer him or soon she would
become to him what Karen Green already was. Had that been Karen's failure, her
damnation, that she hadn't been able to answer him? 'Thank you.' She forced the
words out, her voice sounding weak and broken.
A wide, relieved smile spread across his face. With his new-found confidence he
moved too quickly towards her cage, startling her. He froze for a second, aware
his impatience had frightened her.
'Don't be afraid, Sam,' he almost begged her. 'I would never hurt you, you know
that. That's why I brought you here, so I could look after you, protect you
from all those liars, all those liars who told you all those things about me to
keep you away from me. I always knew you didn't believe them, Sam. And now they
can't hurt us any more. We can be together now.' More silence as he waited for
her to answer.
'I need the toilet,' she told him, the thought and words coming from nowhere.
He stared at her for a while, his mouth still holding a thin smile, but his
eyes darted around in confusion and fear. 'Of course,' he eventually answered.
'I thought you probably would.' It wasn't how she'd expected him to answer.
'I'll have to let you out,' he continued. 'Where you won't be as safe from
them, Sam. They're still in your mind, you see. All the things they did to you,
they're still in your mind. They might try and trick you, get you to do
something you don't want to do. They might try and make you hurt me.'
'I won't,' she forced herself to say. 'I promise.'
He pushed his hand into his loose tracksuit bottoms and fished around awkwardly
for something, before finally tugging the black box free and showing it to her.
She recognized it immediately, the stun-gun he'd used to take her. The thing
he'd used to defile Karen Green. 'Don't worry,' he assured her. 'If they try
and make you do something you shouldn't, I'll use this.' He looked puzzled by
her expression of fear. 'It won't hurt you,' he promised. 'It'll just stop them
making you do things. It keeps them away.'
'I need to clean up, that's all,' she told him.
He considered her for a long time before speaking. 'OK,' he said, and moved
towards her cage slowly and carefully, his eyes never leaving hers. Within a
few short steps he was at her cage, almost as close to her as he'd been when he
took her, his pallid skin and stained crooked teeth clearly visible, his arms
thin, but sinewy and strong, the arteries and veins blue and swollen. He took a
key carefully from his other tracksuit pocket and tentatively held it close to
the lock. He considered her again, then gave a broad smile, pushed the key into
the lock and turned it. A slight moment of hesitation and then he swung the
door open, the hinges squealing and the wire of the cage reverberating. He
stepped back, the stun-gun in his hand at his side. 'Please,' he said, 'this
way,' and pointed towards the old hospital screen.
Louise walked in a hunched, squatted gait towards the opening, the pain of her
muscles cramping matched only by the fear that made her heart send shock waves
through her chest. She paused for a moment at the entrance and waited for him
to take a few more steps back, at last pushing herself through into the room,
stretching her sore, stiff body, straightening for the first time in a day and
a half, but all the time careful not to let the duvet slip from her shoulders
and show him her nakedness. 'Behind the screen,' he instructed her. 'You can
get cleaned up there and there's a toilet you can use. It's only a chemical
one, but it works well enough.'
'Thank you,' she forced herself to tell him, when all she really wanted to do
was spit in his face. As she rounded the screen she saw her facilities - an
old, stained sink barely attached to the cellar wall; rusty, limescale-crusted
metal taps and a new-looking chemical toilet set low on the floor. She guessed
he had recently installed the toilet, but clearly he had been planning for this
for some time. Her eyes searched around for anything she could fashion into a
weapon. There was nothing. She swallowed her disappointment and her rising
tears.
She could feel him on the other side of the screen, watching her through the
thin fabric, waiting for her to drop the duvet, his imagination removing the
barrier, his eyes flicking across her skin. 'Are you all right in there?' he
asked, as if she was in a separate room.
'Yes,' she stuttered in reply. 'Just getting things ready.'
'The hot water tap's the one on the left,' he warned her.
She let the water run hot before putting the chained plug in the sink and
allowing it to fill, looking over her shoulder at his silhouette behind her,
allowing the duvet to slip to the floor, leaving her standing naked and
vulnerable in a way she'd never felt until now. Quickly she began to wash,
using the sliver of soap he'd left on the sink to try and cleanse her skin of
as much of him as she could. All the time she knew he was watching her,
watching her hands moving over her own damp, shiny body. She rinsed herself
clean of the soap and looked around for a towel, a sense of panic rising as she
realized there wasn't one next to the sink, the panic easing when she saw it on
the table by the tray of food he'd brought. Hurriedly she patted herself dry,
the stale smell of the scratchy towel making her want to retch. She could hear
him, breathing heavily as he watched her. Pulling the duvet over herself, she
stepped out from behind the screen.
'Take the tray,' he said. 'It's all for you.'
She studied the tray and the items on it suspiciously. A white-bread sandwich,
some crisps emptied into a plastic bowl, a few biscuits and a can of Coke. The
emptiness in her stomach and the rasping dryness of her throat told her to take
it. 'You'll have to eat it in your room,' he instructed, his eyes pointing to
her cage. 'I'll get the tray later.'
She did as he wanted and walked as quickly as she could back to her prison,
almost relieved to be behind the wire again, a barrier between her and him,
even if she knew it was a barrier he controlled. 'I'll bring you clean clothes
in the morning,' he said as he closed her cage door and replaced the lock. 'You
need to get some sleep, Sam. We have so many plans to make. I have to go now.'
He was moving towards the light cord when a weak voice stopped him.
Karen's head raised slightly from the floor. 'Please,' she asked desperately.
'I need a drink and I'm very hungry. Can I have something, please? I promise
I'll be good.' The room waited silently for a reaction, Louise looking from
Karen to him and back, praying he wouldn't hurt her cellmate, praying she
wouldn't have to watch again.
'What?' he demanded, the friendliness in his voice replaced with a quiet
menace. 'You want what, whore?'
'Please,' Karen pleaded, her voice trembling, her throat almost shut with
dryness and terror. 'I'm so thirsty. I don't feel very well. I need some food.
Please. Anything.'
'Lying whores get nothing!' he shouted.
'No, no,' Karen sobbed. 'Please, I don't understand what you mean. I don't know
why I'm here. Just let me go, please. I swear I won't tell anyone what you've
done.'
'Shut up,' he screamed, agitated, behaving as if he was the one who was
trapped, as if he was the one in danger. 'You're trying to trick me. You're
trying to fuck with my head again.' He was pointing at Karen, accusing her,
close to tears himself now. He turned to Louise. 'See what they do, Sam? See
what they're trying to do to us?'
'Just let me go,' Karen was almost shouting. 'Please, let me go.'
'Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Make her stop, Sam!'
Louise covered her ears with the palms of her hands, pressing so hard that her
inner ears began to hurt under the pressure. She couldn't stand to listen to
this a moment longer.
'You're a whore, a lying whore! She tried to pretend she was you, Sam. She
tricked me. She made me bring her here, but I found out she's a liar. She's one
of them, trying to ruin everything for me.'
'That's not true,' Karen pleaded with him through the strings of saliva that
webbed across her contorted mouth. 'I'll do anything you want me to, I swear.'
'Shut up, lying whore,' he shouted in her face through the wire, holding his
stun-gun in front of her so she could see clearly. 'I know what you're trying
to make me do, it's what all you whores want me to do to them, but you won't
make me.' He looked back at Louise, a smile mixing with his fear, his face
shining with the sweat of anxiety. 'Sam's with me now. You can't stop us.' He
began to walk backwards, silently, his eyes never leaving Karen's, wagging his
finger at her as if warning her against doing whatever it was he imagined she
was about to do. He pulled the light-switch cord, sinking the room back to its
deathly gloom as he stepped behind the wall of the staircase and out of sight.
They could hear him breathing, deep and panicked, but calming once he couldn't
be seen, then they could hear him no more. They waited a few minutes until the
torchlight returned with a click, followed by his familiar soft footsteps
climbing the stairs. A metal door being pulled open and then swung carefully
shut; the locked padlock clanging against the sheet metal. Then nothing -
silence and darkness. Nothing.
Shortly after ten on Wednesday night Sally squeezed her hatchback into
virtually the last parking space in the street. Even the necessity to display
your residents-only parking permit couldn't keep the road clear of vehicles
abandoned for the night. Her neighbours had been home for hours, most already
thinking about sleep before the dawning of another day exactly like the one
they'd just lived. Sally almost envied them. She waited in her locked car,
lights on and engine running, until she saw some other sign of life in the
street. A young couple appeared in her wing mirror, walking arm in arm along
the pavement, the man muttering and the woman giggling. At this time of night
it would have to do. Sally quickly turned off the lights and engine and jumped
from her car, locking it without looking as she walked towards the smart
three-storey Victorian terrace her new flat was in: a two-bedroom place on the
top floor. By the time she reached the front door she already had her house
keys ready and she entered the house quickly and quietly, the way she'd
practised hundreds of times. No one could have followed her inside.
She heard the young couple walk past outside, reminding her of one of the many
reasons she'd chosen this flat, in this house, on this street: because it was
often quite busy, even at night - Putney High Street was just at the end of the
road. Sebastian Gibran may not have taken her life, but he'd killed so many
things that had been important to her, that she'd loved. She'd not been back to
her old flat since he attacked her there. It held nothing for her but
nightmarish memories of horror and pain. The selling estate agent had been very
helpful and had visited the flat whenever necessary so Sally hadn't had to.
As quickly and efficiently as she'd entered the house, she climbed the stairs
and entered her flat. Only when she was inside did she breathe out the tension
she'd been carrying for the last few hours. Standing with her back to the front
door, she surveyed the interior, the lights she'd deliberately left on all day
- another new habit, to avoid those panicked moments in the dark, fumbling for
the light switch. Everything seemed fine as she scanned the sparse furniture
and removal company boxes spread around the floor, still waiting to be
unpacked. If this latest case went the way she was sure Sean thought it would,
the boxes would have to wait a few more days or even weeks.
Sally stepped into the room that served as both her entrance and lounge and
searched for the television remote. She found it on the coffee table, hiding
under an unread newspaper, and clicked the TV on for background noise. She kept
moving deeper into the flat, along the corridor and into the gleaming new
kitchen equipped with everything a keen cook would need, things that she would
hardly ever use. Stabbing pains in her chest strong enough to make her wince
reminded her of her mission. From an overhead cupboard she pulled a pack of
tramadol prescription painkillers free, grabbed a glass from the neighbouring
cupboard and headed for the fridge. She yanked the door open and checked the
barren contents, discovering half a bottle of white wine, still drinkable.
Trying unsuccessfully to steady her hand, she poured a full glass, spilling a
few drops that ran down the outside of the glass and dripped annoyingly on to
the kitchen table. She pushed three tramadol from their foil surrounds, one
more than she'd been prescribed to take, and swallowed them in one go with a
good swig of the wine.
Closing her eyes, she waited for some relief, some elemental change in her mind
and body, but the effects were too slow. She grabbed another glass from the
draining board and headed for the freezer, hesitating for a second before
surrendering to the idea and opening the door. Her old friend seemed to look at
her, that bottle of vodka that had been ever-present in her freezer since her
early days in the CID, wedged between a packet of unopened frozen vegetables
and a once-raided bag of French fries. The vodka had become more necessary of
late, an everyday requirement rather than a treat after a particularly tough
day. By five o'clock her mind would already be drifting to the thought of that
first taste, first hit, mixing with the tramadol and ibuprofen, a legal
narcotics cocktail that rushed straight to her brain and took the world away
just as sure as any junky's fix could. She poured two fingers' worth into the
short, fat tumbler and drank half in one gulp, the freezing liquid numbing her
throat and empty stomach, warning her brain of the delights it could soon
expect.
She waited for the chemicals to ease her pain and anxiety, but as the storms
calmed the quieter ghosts began to sweep forward. The tears seemed to start in
her throat, but no matter how hard she tried to swallow them back down they
found their way to her eyes and escaped in heavy drops that ran down her face,
each finding a new route, dropping on to her hands and into her drink. Once the
tears were flowing she knew there was no point fighting them, better to let
them come until she would be too exhausted to cry any more; then she would sit
quietly, motionless, her mind still and blank, her heart fluttering in the
silence until finally sleep would take her. In the morning she would feel a
little better, hung-over, but a little better, just about able to face the
world.
Since she went back to work she'd been holding it together OK during office
hours, getting the job done, not asking for any special treatment, but there
were frequent moments of burning anxiety, when she'd been scared to speak for
fear of her voice shaking, scared to hold a pen in case someone noticed her
hand trembling. And every morning before leaving for work she stood frozen by
her front door, physically unable to reach out and open it, hyperventilating
with fear of the world beyond. Two weeks ago she'd suffered one of her worst
attacks, remaining slumped against her door for more than an hour while she
desperately tried to gather up the courage to leave her sanctuary. Even on the
days when she overcame the fear and made it to her car, she would drive through
the streets pretending nothing was wrong, sit at her desk pretending that she
didn't have to endure this daily ritual of personal torment.
Sally drained the glass and reached for her old friend in the freezer to pour a
refill.
It was midnight by the time Sean arrived home, a modest semi-detached Edwardian
house in the better part of Dulwich that he shared with his wife Kate and their
two young daughters, Mandy and Louise. He knew Kate had been working the late
shift as the attending physician in the Accident and Emergency Department of
Guy's Hospital and would therefore not long have got home herself. Probably
he'd find her awake, eager to talk about her day and the children. On a normal
day at a normal time he'd have looked forward to sitting with Kate and chatting
about the unimportant and important alike, but this had been no normal day. His
mind was swimming with images and ideas he wouldn't share with her - images and
ideas that would make it difficult to concentrate on anything she said. He
reminded himself that women needed to talk, that somehow he would have to focus
on his wife's conversation. All the same he was hoping she'd be asleep so he
could grab a drink and watch the TV in the kitchen and pretend to himself he
wasn't thinking about Louise Russell.
He turned the key and quietly pushed the door open. The lights were on in the
kitchen. Dropping his keys as noisily as he dared on the hallway table, hoping
Kate would hear the noise and know he was home before he accidentally startled
her, he took a breath and walked to the kitchen.
Kate looked up from her laptop. 'You're late,' she said matter-of-factly. 'I'm
the one who's supposed to be on lates this week, remember?'
'Sorry,' Sean told her. 'We picked up a new case.'
'So you won't be around much the next few days?'
'Sorry,' he said again. 'You know what it's like when a new one comes in.'
'Yes, Sean,' she answered. 'We all know what it's like when you get a new one.
Shame,' she continued, 'I was hoping to save some money on childcare this week.'
'Kirsty's all right looking after the kids, isn't she?' he asked. 'She probably
needs the cash.'
'So do we,' Kate reminded him. 'At least if you were still a sergeant, you'd
get paid overtime. The hours you work, we'd be rich.'
'I doubt it,' Sean scoffed.
'So what's the new case?' Kate asked. 'What tale of horror do you have to
untangle this time? I assume it's another murder?'
'Even if it was a murder, you know I wouldn't tell you about it. Work stays at
work.'
'Even if it was a murder,' Kate pointed out. 'Meaning it's not a murder this
time. So why is a Murder Investigation Team investigating something other than
a murder?'
'As it happens, it's a missing person,' Sean told her.
'Oh,' Kate said, interested and concerned. 'A missing person who you think is
dead. Get you on the job early, ready for when the body turns up. That's not
like the Met, planning ahead.'
'I don't,' Sean said.
'Don't what?'
'Think she's dead. I think someone's taken her.'
'A kidnap case?' Kate asked.
'I'm not expecting a ransom note.'
'Then what?'
'Like I said, no details.' Sean changed the subject: 'How are the girls?'
Kate paused before answering, unsure as to whether she should try and prise
more details from him. She decided she'd be wasting her time. 'Last time I saw
them awake they were fine, but they miss their dad.'
'I suppose that's good.'
'I think I know what you mean,' Kate smiled. 'Next time you're home they'll mob
you - you have been warned.'
'I look forward to it.' Sean headed for the fridge, searching around inside for
a beer. Kate waved her empty wine glass in the air. 'While you're in there, a
top-up please.' He grabbed the bottle of wine and poured as little as he
thought he could get away with into her glass, not wishing to delay her going
to bed any longer than was absolutely necessary, before putting it back in the
fridge and grabbing a beer. He took his favourite glass from the cupboard and
sat at the table with Kate, using the remote to click the TV on.
'I take it that's the end of conversation for the night,' Kate accused.
'Sorry.' Sean turned to her with a mischievous grin. 'I thought you were
playing on your computer.'
'Ha, ha,' Kate replied. 'Working, Sean. Working. All we ever do is work. Work
and pay bills. That's it.'
'It's not that bad,' Sean argued, now glad she'd waited up, pleased to have the
distraction of conversation.
'We should think about New Zealand again. Remember, after what happened to
Sally, you said we ought to get the hell out of here, start a new life, one
where we actually see each other. Where we see the kids.'
'I don't know,' Sean answered. 'It just feels like running away.'
'Nothing wrong with running away if it's running away to a better life.'
'There's no guarantee of a better life,' Sean argued. 'I did my research. New
Zealand's not all green fields and blue skies. They've got plenty of problems
too. You don't really think they'd stick me in a plush office somewhere
overlooking the Pacific with nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs and admire the
view all day, do you? They'd find some shithole to stick me in and we'd be back
where we started, only stuck on the other side of the world.'
'It can't be as bad as it is here,' Kate insisted. 'I've lived with you too
long not to know your job and how it works. If you were to so much as hint that
you want to go home and see your family once in a while, they'd all look at you
like you've gone mad, like you're somehow letting the team down. Only losers
want to actually go home now and then, right?' Sean shifted uncomfortably in
his chair. 'And as we both know, there's no way you could ever, ever walk out
on a job and let somebody else deal with it. You're way too conscientious for
that. True?'
'I can't walk out in the middle of a job. There's no one else to pass it on to.
A case comes in, it lands on my desk and that's it. It's mine until it's
finished. If I don't get to come home for a week then I don't get to come home
for a week. That's the way it is. It goes with the territory. It's the job.
It's what I do. I can't run off to New Zealand. I can't run off anywhere. I am
what I am. I do what I do. You don't want to see me sitting in an office in the
City pushing paper around, living for my bonus, another clone - that would kill
me. I wouldn't be me any more. I'd bore you to death.'
Kate thought for a long while before answering. 'You're right,' she told him.
'I know you have to be a cop. You thrive on it. It makes you proud - and so it
should. But the kids are getting older. At least one of us needs to be here
more for them.'
'Meaning?'
'I'm just saying,' Kate went on. 'The fact is I earn almost twice what you do
and I don't have to nearly kill myself to do it.'
'What are you suggesting?' Sean asked, his voice thick with suspicion.
'I don't really know,' Kate admitted. 'I think we need more of a plan, that's
all. I have no idea where we're going.'
'Who ever knows that?' Sean questioned. 'All anyone can do is live in the day,
try and get something out of every day. All these books and gurus spouting
plans for a better life - it's a load of crap. You have to just try and live
your life the best you can.'
Kate studied him a while. 'I am happy,' she told him, 'but surely there's more
for us somewhere. Something better.'
Sean searched her brown eyes for signs of happiness. He saw no signs of
unhappiness and decided that was good enough, for now.
'I do love you,' she continued, 'which is why I worry about you, which is why I
don't want to share you with the bad people, the psychos, the drug dealers, the
angry madmen. I want you all for myself and the kids.'
Her words made him smile. 'I know,' he said. 'But I want you and the kids to be
proud of me. I want them to know what I do.'
'Christ,' Kate replied. 'You'll scare the bloody hell out of them.'
'I'll spare them the details, but you get what I mean.'
'So,' Kate surrendered, 'we carry on as we are, ships that pass in the night,
absent parents?'
'I'm not ready to walk away yet,' Sean told her. 'Let's give it a couple more
years, then we'll see.'
'I wouldn't ask you to walk away if you don't want to,' she assured him.
'A couple more years,' Sean almost promised. 'Then we'll see.'
'I'll remember this conversation, you know,' she warned him.
'Of course you will,' Sean conceded. 'You're a woman.'
3
Thursday morning shortly before nine o'clock and Sally was knocking on the door
of a nondescript house in Teddington on the outskirts of West London, steeling
herself to ask the occupants a set of questions that even their closest friends
wouldn't dare to broach. Though she'd never met these people, experience told
her they would see her as their potential saviour. This morning she felt more
like an intruder come to wreak havoc. So long as she got the answers to her
questions - answers that could progress or kill off this new case - she didn't
really care what impact her visit might have on their lives.
While she waited for an answer, she took a couple of steps back from the door,
surveying the large ugly house that would have been the pride of the street
when newly built in the seventies, but now looked tired and out of place
amongst the older, more gracious houses.
She heard the approach of muffled footsteps, comfortable slippers or soft
indoor shoes, moving rapidly, but shuffling, the effort of lifting feet too
much for ageing, tired muscles. There was a hurried fumbling of the latch then
the door opened to reveal a grey-haired couple who resembled each other: both
small and slightly dumpy, curly hair long since abandoned to nature, tanned
skin from too many cruise-ship holidays, cardigans and elasticated trousers,
thin-framed spectacles magnifying bright, hopeful, blue eyes. They answered the
door together, something that only happened in times of joyful or fearful
expectation. Sally thought they looked like children sneaking into a room in
the middle of the night where their parents had lied to them that Father
Christmas would have left their presents, excited by the promise of toys,
afraid of being caught.
'Yes?' the old man asked, his wife peering over his shoulder. Sally flipped
open her warrant card and faked a smile.
'DS Jones, Metropolitan Police ...' She managed to stop herself adding Murder
Investigation Team. The last thing she needed was two old people passing out on
her, or worse. 'I'm looking into the disappearance of your daughter, Louise
Russell. You are ...' Sally quickly checked her notebook, silently cursing
herself for not having done so before knocking, '... Mr and Mrs Graham -
Louise's parents?' They were too desperate to notice her hesitation.
'Yes,' the old man confirmed. 'Frank and Rose Graham. Louise is our daughter.'
Frank and Rose, Sally thought. Old names. Strong names. 'Can I come in?' she
asked, already moving towards the door.
'Please,' said Mr Graham, stepping aside to allow her to enter the hallway.
Sally felt the carpet under her feet, worn and thin, too colourful for today's
tastes, like the floral wallpaper and framed prints of famous paintings,
Constable mingling with Van Gogh.
'Have you heard anything?' he asked, his patience failing him. 'Do you know
where she is?'
'Frank,' Mrs Graham reprimanded him. 'Maybe Sergeant Jones would like a cup of
tea first?'
'Of course. Sorry,' Mr Graham apologized. 'Perhaps you'd like to come through
to the lounge. We can have tea in there - or coffee, if you'd prefer.'
'Tea will be fine,' said Sally.
'I'll put the kettle on,' Mrs Graham announced and scuttled away to where Sally
assumed the out-dated kitchen would be. 'I'll be back in a couple of minutes,'
she called back over her shoulder.
'This way,' said Mr Graham, indicating the nearest door as if he was showing
her to a seat in the theatre.
Sally entered the room, taking everything in: more cheap-looking prints of
paintings, moderately expensive bric-a-brac, china figurines of women in
Victorian dresses holding parasols, a mustard-coloured carpet so thick it was
bouncy, and as the centre piece an old oversized television newly adapted to
receive a digital signal. Sally doubted they even knew why they needed the
strange box that now sat on top of their former pride and joy.
'Please,' Graham invited her. 'Take a seat.'
Sally looked around for a seat no one would be able to share with her and
decided on the fake leather armchair, the type she'd seen in old people's rest
homes.
'Thanks,' she said, perching herself on the edge of the chair, dropping the
computer case that she used as a briefcase on the floor by her feet. Graham sat
in what she assumed was his usual chair, prime of place for TV viewing.
'This has all been very difficult for my wife,' he began.
'I'm sure it has,' Sally empathized. 'And for you too.'
'I've been OK,' he lied. 'Bearing up. Someone has to, you know.'
'Of course,' Sally pretended to agree.
'Ten years in the army teaches you a thing or two about coping with, with
difficult situations.'
'You were in the army?' Sally asked, warming him up for the hard questions
still to come.
'I was.' His voice and posture suddenly became more soldierly. 'I did my
National Service and, unlike most of my mates, I loved it. So I signed up for
regular army when my year was up. The Green Jackets. But it's a young man's
game, the army. After ten years I moved to civvie street.'
'What did you do there?' Sally asked, already knowing she wouldn't be
interested in the answer.
'Sales,' he answered curtly, as bored by his life as Sally would have been. An
uncomfortable silence hung in the air until Sally thought of something to say.
'Was ...' she began clumsily. 'Sorry, is Louise your only child?'
'Yes. How did you know?'
'I didn't,' Sally lied. She'd recognized the desperation of single-child
parents the moment they'd opened the door. Once Louise was gone they'd have
nothing. 'Not for sure.'
'Oh,' was all he replied, then more silence. 'If you'll excuse me, I'll just go
and check on that tea. Rose has been a little distracted the last couple of
days. Won't be a minute.'
'Of course,' said Sally. As soon as he was gone she stood and began to move
slowly and silently, scrutinizing the room's contents, careful not to touch
anything. She homed in on the framed photographs on the mantelpiece above the
old fake-flame electric fire. One or two showed Frank and Rose Graham in exotic
locations, but most were of Louise, a collage of her life from young girl to
womanhood. Sally liked the photographs. They were very different to the one and
only photograph of Louise she'd seen up to now, the lifeless passport photo her
husband had given them. These pictures were full of energy and joy, hope and
expectations: a child beaming for the school photographer, a teenager posing
with friends on a trip to the London Eye, a young woman receiving her
graduation diploma outside some university. 'Where the hell are you, Louise?'
Sally found herself saying. 'What's happened to you?' Her peace was snatched
away as the Grahams clattered back into the room, Mr Graham carrying the tray
of tea and accompaniments as his wife opened the door and made sure his path
was clear.
'Here we are,' Mrs Graham said almost cheerfully. 'Pop it on the table, Frank,
and I'll sort it out from there.' He did as he was told and retreated to his
comfortable old chair as Sally returned to hers. 'How do you take it, Sergeant?'
'Milk and one,' Sally told her. 'And please, just call me Sally.'
'All right, Sally,' Mr Graham replied. 'How can we help you find our daughter?'
'Well,' Sally began to answer before pausing to accept the cup and saucer Mrs
Graham held out to her. 'Thank you. Well, there may be questions that you're
best able to answer, about Louise - things that only a parent would know.'
'She's a good daughter,' Mrs Graham insisted. 'She always has been, but I
shouldn't think there's anything we could tell you that John hasn't already.'
'Her husband?' Sally sought to clarify.
'He may be her husband,' Mr Graham sniffed, 'but he doesn't know her like we
do.' So, Sally thought, Louise is a daddy's girl and Daddy sounds a bit jealous.
'You have a problem with him?' Sally asked.
'Yes, he does,' Mrs Graham answered for him. 'He's had a problem with all her
boyfriends. None of them were ever good enough for his Louise, including John.'
'She could have done better,' Mr Graham said coldly.
'He's a good husband and a good man,' Mrs Graham scolded. 'She did well to keep
hold of him, if you ask me.'
Mr Graham rolled his eyes in disapproval.
'Is she happy?' Sally asked. 'In the marriage?'
'Very,' Mrs Graham replied. Mr Graham chewed his bottom lip.
'Any problems that you know about?' Sally continued to probe.
'None,' Mrs Graham answered bluntly. 'They're hoping to start a family
together. Louise is so excited, she always wanted children, you see.'
'A waste of her education if you ask me,' Mr Graham reminded them he was there.
'A higher diploma in graphic design,' Mrs Graham scoffed. 'She was never going
to light up the world with that, was she? She only went to college because he
made her.' She jutted her chin towards her husband. Another roll of his eyes.
'Was that where she met John?' Sally asked.
'No,' Mrs Graham shook her head. 'She met him through mutual friends a few
years ago.'
'I'm sorry to ask this,' Sally apologized in advance, 'but was there anybody
else?'
The Grahams were confused by her question. 'Sorry?' Mrs Graham frowned.
'Anybody else? I don't understand.'
Sally sucked in a deep breath. 'Is there any possibility that Louise could have
been seeing another man?' She watched their blank faces and waited for the
reaction.
'Another man?' Mrs Graham asked.
'It does happen,' Sally told them. 'It wouldn't make her a bad person. It's
just something that can happen.'
'Not to Louise,' Mr Graham answered, more stern now; offended.
'Are you sure?' Sally persisted. 'I need you to be absolutely sure.'
'We're sure,' Mr Graham spoke for them both.
Sally waited a while before continuing, studying Mrs Graham, looking for a
contradiction in her face, a hint of shame or lying eyes avoiding hers,
searching for a place to hide. She saw nothing.
'What about John?' Sally asked. 'Did Louise ever have suspicions about him?
Could he have been seeing anyone?'
'If he is, Louise never mentioned it to us,' Mr Graham assured her. 'But we
would hardly know, it's not like we live in each other's pockets. I mean, we
see them regularly enough, but they live on the other side of London. Their
business is their business.'
'I understand,' said Sally. 'And I'm sorry I had to ask, but when a young woman
goes missing we need to cover every possibility, no matter how unlikely.'
'Of course,' Mrs Graham said, ever understanding. 'Anything to help try and
find her.'
Sally could see the pain and loss swelling in Mrs Graham's chest and throat.
She felt a sudden sense of panic, something screaming at her without warning to
run from the house, to get away from these people before they began to transfer
their nightmares on to her, before she would be expected to comfort Mrs Graham,
to tell her everything would be fine. Sally stretched out of her chair and
placed her untouched tea on the table.
'You've been very helpful, but I've taken up enough of your time.' Sally found
herself almost backing out of the room before Mrs Graham stopped her.
'You don't think anything bad has happened to her, do you?' she asked. 'Nothing
really bad's happened to her, has it?'
'I'm sure she'll be fine,' Sally reassured them, desperate to escape the house
and the Grahams.
'If anything's happened to her, I don't know what we'd do,' Mrs Graham tortured
her. 'She's our only child. She's always been such a wonderful daughter. She's
a good person. No one would want to hurt Louise, would they? She's not the sort
of person anyone would want to hurt. I mean, these terrible men you hear about,
they go after prostitutes and young girls whose families don't care about them,
let them wander the streets at all hours, don't they?'
Sally almost grabbed at the pain that suddenly throbbed in her chest, Sebastian
Gibran's face looming in her mind, straight white teeth and red eyes. Nausea
gripped her body, the blood rushing from her face, her lips turning blue-white
as she tried to swallow the bile seeping into her mouth. She wanted Mrs Graham
to stop, but she wouldn't.
'Louise just isn't the sort of person these people go after. She goes to work
and then goes home. I've seen programmes on the telly, they always say
murderers select their victims, don't they, that somehow the victims attract
these terrible men, they do something that draws these lunatics to them, as if
there's something wrong with them.'
Sally knew she was close to vomiting, even if her empty stomach forced out
nothing more than saliva and bile. She managed to speak.
'Could I please use your toilet?' she asked, clamping her lips closed the
moment the words were out.
Mrs Graham spoke through rising tears. 'Of course. It's off the hallway, second
on the left.'
Sally staggered from the lounge into the hallway, trying to remember Mrs
Graham's directions, pushing every door she came to until she found the toilet
and fell inside, somehow managing to close the door before pulling her hair
back with one hand and thrusting her face deep into the bowl. Instantly her
stomach compressed and her eyes rolled back into her skull as she violently
retched, time after time, the agonizing pain in her belly yielding nothing but
a trickle of bile, thick, green and yellow, as bitter as hate. Finally the
retching ceased. Sally blinked and tried to focus through watering eyes,
standing and checking herself in the mirror. Her eyes were red - she'd ruptured
tiny capillaries - but some colour was returning to her face and lips. She
rinsed her mouth and dabbed a little of the cool liquid on to her eyes,
carefully drying them with a towel without rubbing too hard. After a few
minutes she decided she looked passable and headed back to the Grahams, a rapid
escape uppermost in her mind.
As she re-entered the lounge, the still-seated Grahams looked up at her like
two Labradors waiting for their master's command. 'Are you all right?' Mrs
Graham asked.
'I'm fine, thank you,' Sally pretended.
'You don't look very well, dear,' Mrs Graham pursued. 'Are you sure you're OK?'
'Just a virus,' Sally invented. 'Anyway, thanks for your time, and if there's
anything you think of, please let me know.' She recovered her computer case,
pulled a business card from the side pocket and handed it to Mrs Graham. 'In
the meantime, if we have any news we'll let you know straight away.'
'Thank you so much.'
Mrs Graham's gratitude only added to Sally's rising guilt. 'No problem,' she
called over her shoulder, heading for the front door, both the Grahams in
pursuit. Rather than wait for them to open the door for her, she fumbled at the
locks and handles herself, tugging the door open and stumbling into the
driveway, pulling in chestfuls of fresh air through her nose. 'We'll be in
touch,' she promised.
'Please find her,' pleaded Mr Graham, his eyes glassy. 'We don't care what
she's done, tell her. We just want to know she's safe.'
'Of course,' Sally answered as she stretched the distance between them and her,
only stopping when Mr Graham said something she didn't understand.
'We have some money,' he called to her.
'Excuse me?' Sally floundered. Was he trying to bribe her to find his daughter?
'If someone asks for money to let her go, we have money. Not much, but it might
be enough,' he explained.
'No,' Sally told him. 'This isn't about money. We're not expecting a ransom
demand.'
'Then what is it about?' Mr Graham demanded.
'We don't know yet,' Sally answered truthfully, the need to escape now
overwhelming. 'Let's just hope she comes home safe and well soon.'
'And if she doesn't?' Mr Graham asked. 'What then?'
Sally searched frantically for an answer, trying to think what the old Sally
would have said to him, but nothing came.
'I don't know,' she replied. 'I'm sorry, but I don't know.'
Sean sat at his desk feeling hungry, tired and thirsty. He'd kept promising
himself he'd stop for a quick breakfast, but another intelligence report,
another door-to-door inquiry questionnaire, another possible sighting of Louise
Russell would catch his eye and delay rest, food and water for a few more
minutes. It would be the same once the time for breakfast became time for
lunch. A rapid-fire knocking on the door frame of his office made him look up
from an intelligence report about a night-time prowler seen in the vicinity of
the Russells' house some weeks before Louise's disappearance. DS Dave
Donnelly's considerable bulk filled the entrance.
'Morning, guv'nor,' he began. 'How's everything in the garden today? Bright and
rosy, I assume.'
'It'll be a lot brighter when you get the door-to-door organized properly,'
Sean reprimanded him.
'I'm only trying to save resources,' retorted Donnelly. 'I don't want to waste
any more time and people on this than necessary. String it out for a couple of
days and then she'll be home and we can get on with what we're supposed to be
doing.'
Sean needed Donnelly on side, he couldn't allow him to keep believing the case
was a waste of their time. Donnelly was the mirror image of Sean - he dealt
only with what was in front of him. He processed evidence, pressed witnesses
hard, interviewed suspects skilfully, but he did it all on the basis of
tangible evidence, not theories and hypothetical conclusions. And he got
results doing things his way. Sean, on the other hand, was instinctive,
imaginative, using the evidence as a guide not a rigid map, unnerving suspects
in interview by telling them what they had been thinking as they were
committing their crimes rather than relying on things he could prove. They
complemented each other - and if the team was to be effective, they needed each
other; a fact Sean grasped better than Donnelly.
'Listen to me.' Sean looked him in the eye, his voice full of conviction.
'You're wrong about this one. Something bad's happened to Louise Russell. Is
she still alive? I don't know, but I think so, which means there's a chance we
could find her before she turns up floating in a river somewhere. I need you
with me on this, Dave.' He sat back in his chair, ran a hand through his hair.
'God knows Sally isn't exactly her old self. I can't afford to lose both my
DSs.'
Donnelly stood silently for a moment, weighing up his response. 'Are you sure?'
he asked. 'Sure she's not just run off with a rush-hour-Romeo? One last time
around the block before settling down to a life of kids and coffee mornings?'
'I'm sure,' Sean told him. 'Unfortunately.'
'Fine,' Donnelly agreed reluctantly. 'So what do you want me to do?'
'See to it that door-to-door's finished for a start,' Sean answered, 'and keep
everyone on their toes. I want this handled as if we already had a body. No
taking it easy because it's only a MISPER.'
'Your wish is my command,' Donnelly assured him.
'Really?' Sean questioned before lowering his voice. 'And keep an eye on Sally.
She's a bit up and down, know what I mean?'
'No problem,' said Donnelly.
They were interrupted by Sean's phone ringing. He held a hand up to prompt
silence and ask Donnelly to stay while he took the call.
It was DS Roddis from the dedicated Murder Investigation Forensic Team. He
greeted Sean in his usual manner, avoiding any reference to rank.
'Mr Corrigan, good morning.'
'Sergeant Roddis. You have something for me?'
'I'm at the Russell home now,' he said. 'We're concentrating our examination on
the hallway and front door, as you requested.'
'Good,' Sean answered. 'Anything?'
'It would appear so ...' Sean's heart rate began to accelerate with
anticipation. 'Unfortunately, the scene hasn't been preserved as I would have
liked, but at least whoever took her didn't make any attempt to clean up after
him. There's no indication that he wiped any surfaces, nothing's been polished
or scrubbed. And when we got down low to the wooden floor we found a full palm
print with fingers attached. We've compared it to John Russell's. It's not his
and it's too big to be Mrs Russell's.'
'Can you lift it off the floor without damaging it?' Sean asked, a picture
forming in his mind of the man who took Louise Russell kneeling next to her
prostrate body, his hand on the floor to balance himself, fingers spread to
take his weight ... while he did what to her?
'We've already lifted it,' Roddis said gleefully.
'Is it good enough to get a match from?'
'If he's in the system, we'll be able to get a match. I'm having it sent
straight to Fingerprints.'
Sean was certain whoever took Louise Russell was a previous offender. It
wouldn't be anything as big as this, but there'd be something in his past. The
question was, had he been convicted? If not, his prints wouldn't be on file.
'There's another thing,' Roddis continued. 'The traces are very faint, but on
the floor, close to where we found the print, there seems to be evidence of a
non-typical chemical. We've swabbed it for the lab, but my first guess would be
chloroform.'
Another piece of the film playing in Sean's head became clearer: the man
kneeling next to her, pouring chloroform on to material, placing it over her
mouth. Sean saw bindings too, being wrapped around her hands, but not her feet
- he would have needed her to walk. He blinked the images away and spoke into
the receiver. 'OK, thanks. Let me know as soon as you have more.'
Beckoning for Donnelly to follow him, he got up and went through into the main
incident room where his team of detectives were busying themselves at their
desks.
'Listen up, everyone,' Sean shouted across the room. 'Forensics have just
confirmed there are indications that Louise Russell was abducted from her home
by an unknown male. If this isn't already a murder case it soon will be unless
we can find her. I know this is different from our usual, but we are now her
only hope, so I want you to give it everything. Chase down every lead, every
piece of information and intelligence we have, no matter how irrelevant it
looks. Let's find her before it's too late.' Sean looked around the room at the
faces of his team. The message seemed to have got through.
'Just for once,' Donnelly said, 'I hope you're wrong.'
'I'm not,' Sean told him. 'But what I can't be sure of is how long we've got.
How long before he tires of his new plaything? And after he throws her out with
the rubbish, what then for our man? Somebody else? Will he take another?'
'You tell me,' Donnelly answered.
'I don't know,' Sean replied. 'Not yet anyway.'
Mid-morning Thursday and Thomas Keller should have been at work, but his
supervisor had agreed to let him have a few hours off so long as he made the
time up in the afternoon. As he walked across the cluttered courtyard from his
cottage towards the metal door that led to the cellar his excitement and
nervousness grew in equal measure. He picked his way through the old tyres and
oil drums that littered his land, land that was dotted with old, disused
outhouses and corrugated-iron barns that once housed battery chickens and God
knows what else. Even the cottage he lived in was hideous, made of large grey
breezeblocks sometime in the sixties and never painted.
He wore his usual loose-fitting tracksuit, the stun-gun pushed into one pocket
bouncing awkwardly off his hip as he walked, the keys in his other pocket prone
to becoming entangled in stray threads from the fraying seams. This morning he
also carried a breakfast tray and a holdall thrown over his shoulder.
On reaching the heavy metal-clad door that led to the cellar below he carefully
placed the tray on the floor. Cursing himself for not having moved one of the
old oil drums to the door so he could use it as a temporary table, he resolved
to do it later, after he'd taken Sam her breakfast.
As he unlocked the oversized padlock that held the door secure he felt his
heart begin to race with anticipation and anxiety. He'd barely been able to
contain himself during the night, barely been able to keep himself from
sneaking in to see her, even if it was just to watch her sleep, to curl up on
the other side of the wire next to her and listen to her breathing. But he knew
he should leave her alone and let her rest. Now that he was only seconds away
from seeing her, the longing to be with her, be with her the way he knew she
wanted him to be, was almost overwhelming. He practised his breathing like the
doctors had shown him - breathing was the key to being able to control his
actions, his temper, his desires.
He pulled the big door back slowly, allowing the light to flood into the
cellar, and stood at the entrance, head cocked to one side, listening for any
noises that might drift up from the darkness below. After a few minutes, having
heard nothing, he picked up the tray and began to move stealthily down the
stone stairs, still listening. If he heard anything that alarmed him he would
drop the tray and run back to the light, slam the door shut and lock it for
ever, never returning to the cellar no matter what.
At the bottom of the stairs he craned his head around the corner of the wall
that hid the staircase from the rest of the room and peered into the gloom,
allowing his vision time to adjust to the poor light, searching for any sign of
change, anything that should make him run. After a few seconds he could clearly
make out the two figures cowering in their cages, both sitting with their knees
pulled up to their chins, arms wrapped around their legs, Karen in her filthy
underwear, Louise naked but covered by the duvet he'd given her.
Finally he stepped into the cellar, their dungeon, all his concentration on
Louise, as if Karen wasn't there any more. 'Did you sleep OK, Sam? I've brought
you some breakfast.' He lifted the tray a little so she could see. 'You'll
probably want to get cleaned up first though, eh?'
Placing the tray on the makeshift table behind the old hospital screen, he
tugged the cord, the bright bulb flooding the cellar with harsh white light.
Louise squeezed her eyes tightly shut against the onslaught, tears seeping out
from her eyelids as he pulled the stun-gun and key from his trousers and moved
slowly towards her cage, careful not to alarm her by moving too fast like
before. He unlocked the cage and allowed the door to swing open, his head
ducking inside. Seeing her eyes focused on the stun-gun in his hand, his own
eyes were drawn to it.
'I do trust you, Sam, you need to know that, but they could still try to keep
us apart. If they do, I'll need this to protect you. You do understand?'
She nodded a frightened yes, her eyes wide with fear. He thought she looked
like a kitten waiting to be plucked from its mother's side, and it made him
feel good, made him feel strong, wanted, needed and in control. He backed away
from the entrance to allow her to emerge and watched as she shuffled forward,
bent double, clinging to the duvet that hid her nakedness. He knew what she was
hiding, remembering the first day he'd brought her here, when he'd taken her
clothes, the clothes they'd made her wear. Excitement coursed through him, his
penis swelling as the blood rushed into it, making it uncomfortable and obvious
under his tracksuit. The memory of seeing, of touching her soft, warm, slightly
olive skin was almost too much for him to bear. He closed his eyes and tried to
keep control, but the image of her round breasts, dark circles at their centre,
and the soft pubic hair almost entirely covering her womanhood, burnt itself
into his mind. The need to be with her here and now was so strong it was
threatening to overtake him. He knew she wanted him too, wanted him as her
lover, but first he needed to show her that he respected her. When they were
finally together it would be so much better because they had waited.
She disappeared behind the screen, becoming a shapeless shadow with a
silhouette of a human head. 'There should be plenty of hot water,' he managed
to say through his pain, the need to release growing ever stronger, 'and the
towel should still be there.' He heard the sound of running water and waited,
knowing what was coming, until at last the duvet slipped from her shoulders to
the floor, the perfection of her silhouette standing so clearly in front of him
now, the shape of her back, the curves of her hips and buttocks, her beautiful
breasts, the points of her nipples, her hands running over her body, touching
it as he so desperately wanted to, her shadow a template on to which he
projected the memory of her nakedness. He realized his mouth was hanging open
and emitting an ugly guttural moaning he hoped she hadn't heard above the
running water. The sound of water ceased as he watched her hurriedly dry
herself and pull the duvet tightly around her body. 'Don't forget the tray,' he
rasped through his dry mouth. 'You must eat. You'll need your strength.'
She appeared from behind the screen, looking from the floor to him and back
again, heading for her cage, speeding up as she passed him, glancing at the
stun-gun in his hand, ducking obediently back inside the safe place he'd made
for her. He waited until she'd settled, watching her examining the items on the
tray: cereal, milk, some fruit. Yes, he thought to himself - she was becoming
as he wanted her to be, as he needed her to be. He eased the cage door shut and
replaced the lock, all the time watching her in wide-eyed excitement and
anticipation of the moment when he would be with her, as it had always been
meant to be.
Needing release, to untie the knot in his guts, to stop the throbbing in his
head, the pain in his groin, he looked across at Karen Green. He was disgusted
by her, yet drawn to her, drawn to the odour leaking from her cage. Slowly he
moved towards her, his face ugly and threatening, his uneven stained teeth
bared. Sensing danger, she tried to escape his approach, but all directions led
to cold wire.
'You disgusting whore,' he accused her, his voice quiet, but full of hateful
intent. 'You've pissed yourself. Do you want me to punish you? Do you?'
shouting now.
'No, please,' she begged him. 'I couldn't help it. Please, I tried not to. I
knew it would make you angry, please.'
His teeth clenched together in rage, the words squeezing through them, each one
shouted with a pause between to emphasize his fury as he edged closer to his
desperately needed release. 'If ... you ... knew ... it ... would ... make ...
me ... angry ... then ... why ... the ... fuck ... did ... you ... do ... it?'
'I tried so hard not to,' Karen pleaded, bright tears making clean stains down
her increasingly filthy face, her mouth round as if trapped in a scream, her
eyes wild with panic as he approached.
He opened a hatch in the side of the cage that was just big enough for a human
arm to fit. 'Put your arm through the hole,' he demanded.
'No,' she sobbed.
'Put your arm through the fucking hole or you know what'll happen.'
'I can't,' Karen gasped between terrible childlike sobs. 'I can't.'
'Put your arm through the fucking hole!' His scream intensified, making both
women jump in fright.
Slowly Karen inched her way across the cage and slid her arm through the gate,
looking away, knowing pain would soon come. He leapt forward and stabbed the
stun-gun into her exposed flesh, sending her flying through the air to the rear
of the cage where she crashed into the wire and fell on to her side.
Then he waited. Waited until the convulsions became little more than twitches.
Finally he darted to the cage door, dropping the key in his rush to unlock it,
fumbling on the floor in a panic to locate it, giggling when he did. The lock
undone, he jerked the door open in a desperate rush to reach her before she
fully recovered.
The desire was overtaking him, everything beginning to feel dreamlike, as if he
had left his body and was watching someone else in the cage with her, someone
else rolling her on to her stomach, tearing at her flimsy underwear, pulling
himself free and searching for her, thrusting and missing, thrusting again,
searching for a warm opening to push himself into her, until finally, when he
was so close to releasing the demons that pounded inside of him, he felt
himself enter her, the feeling of being inside her making his eyes roll back
with excruciating pleasure like he'd never been able to feel before - before he
started taking them. In the midst of his ecstasy he wondered if the others
would be as good as this, his first.
He rutted like a wild animal, almost unaware of the human being lying
underneath him, crying in pain, humiliated and desolate, while he forced
himself on her, grunting with absolute pleasure, the warm flesh around his sex
driving him to push harder and deeper until the release rushed free from his
body and into her. He pushed himself as deeply as he could inside her as the
release began to fade, at last allowing his body to relax, bringing him back to
the world and the realization of what he had done, shame attempting to wash him
clean of his terrible sin.
Keller looked down at the sobbing creature pinned underneath him, his erection
fading fast. He pulled himself out of her and tugged his trousers up, already
backing out of the cage, unable to look at her. His eyes were immediately drawn
to Louise, looking on in horror.
Pointing at the figure discarded on the floor of the other cage, he protested,
'She made me do it, Sam. She always makes me do it. She knows how to trick me.
She's one of them. That's how I knew she wasn't really you, because of the
things she makes me do to her. You would never make me do those things.'
Slamming the door to Karen's cage shut, he snapped the lock back into place
then stood clinging to the wire mesh, fighting back the tears that tried to
escape from his red eyes, self-loathing and hatred tearing away the ecstasy
he'd felt only moments earlier. He scrunched his eyes tightly together, shame
giving way to an anger that without warning swept through his being like a
raging fire ripping through a bone-dry forest. He straightened, his body frozen
with tension as he released his fury, screaming 'I hate you!' into the room.
Then he turned and ran sobbing from the cellar, up the stairs and into the
daylight, cursing his lack of control, his weakness, the fact they had seen his
weakness. Humiliation kept his legs pumping as he ran across the derelict
courtyard, bouncing off oil drums, tripping on old tyres until he reached his
dilapidated cottage and fell through the door, clutching his chest, desperate
for his burning lungs to fill with air, to slow his heart and stop the
throbbing pain in his head.
Collapsed on the floor of his neglected kitchen, he waited, staring at the
ceiling, as images from his childhood taunted him, joined by other, more recent
images of torment. But he didn't try to push them away. Instead he embraced
them like a welcome dream, and gradually the ugly images calmed him, slowed the
torrents of his mind and body until finally he was in control again.
Realizing he was lying on the kitchen floor, he sprang to his feet, confused
and distrustful of how he came to be there. The memories of what had happened
in the cellar came seeping back, and with them his anger, but it was
controllable now. He could turn this weakness into his strength, but in order
to do that she needed to be taught a lesson. He would have to show the whore he
knew what she was.
Keller made his way to the shed attached to the side of the cottage and pulled
the unlocked door open. Undaunted by the disorganized chaos that confronted
him, he began to scoop armfuls of items from their shelves, kicking the things
that landed on the floor out of his way until he found what he was looking for:
a bag of litter and a tray he'd bought months ago when he was trying to
domesticate one of the feral cats that patrolled his land. He paused for a
second, the memory of the ungrateful cat pricking his thoughts. It had got what
it deserved, but at least he'd given it a proper burial, in one of the few
green and picturesque spots on his land, under the sole willow tree that shaded
the back of his cottage. He shook the memory away and examined the items he
held.
Satisfied that this would teach the whore who was in control, he set about
filling the litter tray, then made his way back to the stairs that led to the
cellar, taking care to avoid the obstacles that littered the way. Once inside,
he raced down the stairs, abandoning caution now, revelling in his power when
he saw them cowering in the corners of their cages. He saw the holdall he'd
dropped on the floor earlier and the clothes inside. No matter. First he'd deal
with the whore.
He unlocked the padlock to Karen Green's cage and pulled the door open. This
time there was no need to brandish the stun-gun; she wouldn't dare cross him
now. The terror in her eyes told him she knew it was no use trying to escape.
He threw the tray of cat litter on to the floor of her cage. 'When you need to
piss, whore,' he shouted, 'you piss in there. You piss in there and you shit in
there.' He watched as she hugged herself, rocking rhythmically back and forth.
Again he pointed at the tray. 'In there - understand, whore?'
Neither waiting for an answer nor expecting one, he slammed her door closed and
carefully replaced the padlock. Then he crossed the cellar to retrieve the
holdall, a smile changing the shape of his face as he pulled the clean and
pressed clothes from within: a sky-blue blouse, grey knee-length pencil skirt,
a cream V-neck sweater and white underwear. Next he removed two bottles: Elemis
body lotion and Tom Ford Black Orchid Eau de Parfum.
'This is for you, Sam,' he told Louise. 'Your own clothes, not the ones they
made you wear. These are your own. And look - your favourite perfume and
lotion. Use the lotion before you dress. Understand?' Louise nodded that she
did. 'Put the perfume on after,' he added. 'Understand?' She nodded again. He
moved to the side of her cage and opened the hatch just wide enough to fit the
items through once he'd rolled them into a single package. 'Take them,' he
demanded, making her stretch out and snatch the package away, falling back into
the corner of her cage.
'I have to go to work now,' he said. 'But I promise I'll come and see you when
I get home. And don't worry about her.' He flicked his head towards the other
cage. 'She can't hurt us any more. Nobody can. Nobody can keep us apart, Sam.
They'll never find us here. They'll never take you away from me again. I swear
it on my life, Sam, I'll never let that happen.'
Mid-morning Thursday and Sean waited in the comfortable office of Harry
Montieth, owner-manager of Graphic Solutions, the small business in Dartmouth
Road, Forest Hill, where Louise Russell should have been at work. He heard
Montieth knock on his own door before ushering in two women in their late
twenties. They both looked scared and anxious; the darkening around their eyes
a clear indication that neither had slept well since learning of their
colleague's disappearance. He liked them already because of their concern,
their self-inflicted sharing of her pain.
'This is Tina,' said Montieth, fumbling for the best way to introduce them to a
cop. 'Tina Nuffield. And this is Gabby - Gabby Scott.'
'Thank you,' Sean acknowledged, examining his face for any signs of guilt or
shame, searching the women's faces for telltale indications of disgust. Having
concluded there was nothing untoward going on between Montieth and his female
employees, he set about questioning them. 'Mr Montieth has told me that you are
Louise's closest friends.'
'We're good friends,' said Gabby, brushing her short blonde hair behind her
ear. Tina remained silent, chewing on her bottom lip, in danger of opening the
partly healed cut she'd already made.
'How good?' Sean probed.
'I've known her since she started here, must be nearly five years ago.'
'And what about you, Tina?' Sean wanted to drag her into the conversation.
'About three years,' she answered quietly. 'That's when I started here. Louise
really looked after me, and Gabby too,' she added, so as not to upset her
friend.
Sean had already decided there was nothing here for him. He continued the
standard questions, barely listening to the replies.
'Things sometimes happen at work that stay at work,' he suggested. 'Things that
never find their way home. You know what I mean?' Everyone in the office did.
'Not Louise,' Gabby said firmly. 'If anything like that had happened, we'd know
about it for sure and I'd tell you now if it was. I wouldn't risk lying to you.'
'You're her best friends, so I guess you would know,' Sean encouraged.
'We would,' Gabby reaffirmed. 'And there wasn't. If Louise went out without
John she would be out with us. We would've known. She loves John. All she ever
talked about was John and how they were going to start a family soon.'
'What about an unwanted admirer?' Sean asked as a last procedural question.
'Someone hanging around outside the office waiting for her? Someone other than
the husband sending flowers, cards?'
The three colleagues looked blankly at each other before Gabby answered for
them all.
'No. Not that I ever saw and not that she ever mentioned.'
'What about at home? Anyone making a nuisance of themselves?'
'Same,' said Gabby. 'Nothing. If there had been, she would have reported it to
the police.'
They were interrupted by Sean's phone ringing on the borrowed desk. He glanced
at the caller ID. It was Donnelly.
'Excuse me,' he said, snatching the phone up, turning his back on them for
false privacy. 'What's happening?'
'We've found the car,' Donnelly told him.
'Where?'
'A place called Scrogginhall Wood, in Norman Park, Bromley.'
'Bromley!' Sean exclaimed. 'That's only a few miles from her home.'
'You were expecting something different?' Donnelly queried.
Sean realized he'd been thinking out loud. 'No,' he muttered. 'Not
necessarily.' He already had a strong feeling that whoever had taken Louise
Russell was local. She hadn't been snatched by some long-distance lorry driver
or salesman on a trip down South. No, this one was from somewhere within the
borders of this forgotten part of London. 'What state's the car in?'
'Locked and secure, apparently. No signs of damage or a struggle. A routine
uniform patrol found it in the car park while they were looking for local
toe-rags who screw the cars there with annoying regularity.'
'Are you already with the car?' Sean asked.
'No,' said Donnelly. 'I'm on my way. ETA about fifteen minutes.'
'Fine. I'll meet you there as soon as I can. Travelling time from Forest Hill,'
Sean explained. 'Make sure uniform preserve it and the car park for Forensics.
And have the AA meet us there to get the thing open. I don't want any over-keen
constables smashing the windows in.'
'It'll be done,' Donnelly assured him.
Sean hung up and turned to his waiting audience.
'Have you found something?' Montieth asked, his lips pale with dread.
'We've found her car,' Sean told them, seeing no point in keeping it a secret.
Montieth's eyes widened, while Gabby started to cry and Tina covered her mouth
with both hands, as if pushing the scream of anxiety back inside her. 'It's
just her car,' Sean tried to reassure them. 'There's no sign of a struggle,
nothing to suggest anything untoward has happened to her.' Gathering up his
belongings, he told them, 'I need to get to where the car was found as quickly
as I can, so I'm afraid I'll have to cut our meeting short. Thanks for all your
help. I promise I'll be in touch if we find anything.' During the long months
without Sally at his side, covering for his abruptness, he'd had to learn to be
a lot more subtle and polite with the public.
'Of course,' Montieth agreed. 'Please, you do what you have to do.'
Sean headed for the door, only to be stopped by Gabby grabbing his arm and
locking eyes with him.
'If someone's hurt her,' she told him, 'and you find them, you do the right
thing by Louise. You understand?'
'I understand,' he assured her, resisting the temptation to rattle off a spiel
about justice, courts and trials, knowing it wasn't what she wanted to hear.
She continued to hold his arm and eyes. 'I understand,' he repeated, his gaze
dropping to the fingers coiled around his forearm. She slowly released her
grip. 'I'll be in touch,' he promised.
The moment the office door closed behind him he broke into a run, virtually
jumping down the stairs, desperate to get to the car before any more evidence
could fade. Before the last lingering traces of the man he hunted drifted away
in the next spring breeze.
4
Thomas Keller arrived for the afternoon shift feeling content and calm, almost
happy. He walked through the gates of the Holmesdale Road Royal Mail sorting
office in South Norwood and headed towards the large grey building he'd worked
in as a postman for the last eleven years. It had changed little inside and out
since he'd started there not long after leaving school at seventeen. To begin
with he'd been restricted to menial jobs, working his way up to helping with
the sorting. It took several years before he was finally given his own round.
He'd never sought to go further in the Royal Mail and knew he never would. He
entered the main building and clocked on, the same time-card-punching machine
noting his arrival now just as it had done eleven years ago.
Without acknowledging his colleagues he walked to his station in front of the
seven-foot tall wooden shelving system and began to prepare the mail for his
round, placing the letters and parcels into pigeonholes according to postcode.
He found the work easy and relaxing; its repetitiveness allowed his mind to
wander to more pleasant thoughts and recent memories.
He was unaware that he was smiling until a voice too close behind him broke his
reverie.
''Allo,' the scratchy voice accused, thick with a south-east London accent.
'Someone looks happy.'
Thomas Keller knew who the voice belonged to. Jimmy Locke was one of his
regular tormentors.
'D'you get your end away or something, Tommy?' Locke bellowed, the smile broad
on his face as he looked around at the other men working their stations for
approval. Their laughter indicated that he had found an appreciative audience.
Keller looked sheepishly over his shoulder and smiled briefly before returning
to his task, doing his best to ignore them.
'Oi!' Jimmy demanded, his face suddenly more serious, the Crystal Palace
Football Club tattoos on his biceps stretching as he flexed the sizeable
muscles that helped offset his growing beer-gut, his cropped hair making his
head look small. 'I asked you a question, Tommy.'
The room fell quiet as the men waited for an answer.
'My name's not Tommy,' Keller responded weakly. 'It's Thomas.'
'Is it now?' Jimmy mocked him. 'So tell me, Thomas - is that Thom-arse or
Tom-ass?'
More laughter, the other men enjoying Keller's impending humiliation. Keller
continued to try and ignore them.
'So what are you, son, an arse or an ass?' Locke turned to face his audience,
pleased with his wit, his daily ritual of destroying Thomas Keller bit-by-bit
almost complete. 'I'm waiting for an answer, Thom-arse, and I don't like being
kept waiting, especially not by little cunts like you.'
Keller felt the shame crawling up his back, hatred and fear swelling in his
belly in equal measures. He felt his skin tingling, growing hot and sweaty, his
face and the back of his neck glowing red, super-heated by his crushing
embarrassment and feelings of uselessness. He heard Locke moving closer to him,
readying himself to spit more venomous words into his ear, but still he
couldn't find the strength to turn and face his torturer. He cursed the power
for deserting him, the power he felt when he was with them, alone in his cellar
with them. If he had that power now he would tear Locke apart. He would tear
them all apart. One day, he promised himself. One day he would turn and face
them, and then they would all be sorry.
Locke's mouth moved in close to the side of his face, the smell of stale beer
and tobacco unmistakeable. Keller tried to lift his arms to pigeonhole the
letters, but they refused to rise.
'Are you a queer, Thom-arse?' Locke demanded. 'Me and the boys reckon you're a
fucking queer. Is that right? Because we don't like working in the same place
as a fucking queer. Some of the boys are worried you might give them AIDS. They
reckon you dirty faggots are all disease-ridden. Is that right, Thom-arse? Are
you infected?' Locke's face, twisted with bigotry, was inches from his.
'I'm not a homosexual,' Keller managed to stutter, barely a whisper.
'What?' Locke almost shouted into his ear, flecks of spittle pricking the side
of Keller's face.
'I'm not a homosexual,' Keller repeated a little louder, wishing he had a knife
in his hand, imagining how he would spin on his heels, keeping the knife low
and tight to his own body, flashing it across Locke's abdomen, stepping back to
watch the red streak spread across the fat bastard's belly as his intestines
slowly tumbled out like eels from a fishing net, with Locke struggling to push
them back into the cavity of his gut, a look of horror replacing the smug
expression on his face.
'What did you say, queer?' Locke snapped, making him jump as he yelled into his
ear. 'Can't you faggots speak properly?'
Without warning, Keller turned on his tormentor, the imagined knife in his hand
slashing at the soft flesh of Locke's over-sized belly just as he'd planned.
The movement was enough to make Locke jump back, fear flashing across his
features for a split second. Keller had never dared turn to face him before. He
would make sure the little faggot never did again. His fingers curled into a
well-practised fist, miniscule scars bearing witness to the teeth he had
punched in the past.
Keller waited for the blow he knew would come. Instead he heard a voice
demanding, 'What's going on here, men?'
The strong calm voice that carried a trace of Jamaican belonged to the shift
supervisor, Leonard Trewsbury. He peered at Locke over the top of his bifocals,
refusing to be intimidated by the younger, bigger man. The man who he knew
detested being supervised by a black man.
'Nothing for you to worry about, Leonard,' Locke pushed.
'I'll be the judge of that,' the supervisor warned him, knowing Locke would
back down. 'And you can call me Mr Trewsbury.' He maintained eye contact with
Locke, daring him to give him an excuse to put him on report or, better still,
dismiss him altogether. 'OK, everybody, let's get back to work,' he ordered.
Eyes glaring and vengeful, Locke slunk back to his workstation.
Trewsbury pulled Thomas Keller to one side. He liked the boy. Keller kept
himself to himself and worked hard. He came to work on time and was always
looking for and willing to do overtime. What he did with his money was a
mystery. Trewsbury never asked and Keller never told.
'You shouldn't let them push you around,' Trewsbury told him.
'It's all right,' Keller lied. 'It doesn't bother me. They're just joking.'
'That's not what it looked like. Next time Locke or any of his cronies bothers
you, you let me know, OK?'
'OK,' Keller agreed, the pounding in his heart mercifully receding, the
throbbing pain of self-loathing and rage easing in his temples.
'Good man,' said Trewsbury. 'Now let's get back to work before we fall too far
behind to catch up.'
'Sure,' Keller replied, trying to sound cool and in control. But inside his
soul, where nobody could see, the images of his revenge were playing out cold
and cruel, bloody and excruciating. When he was with Sam, when they were
finally together as they were meant to be, as he knew she wanted them to be,
she would give him the strength to be the person he knew he really was. And
then he would make Locke and the others regret their tormenting. He would make
them all regret everything they had ever done to him.
Sean turned on to the access road in Norman Park, Bromley, heading towards
Scrogginhall Wood. Only in a city would such an insignificant patch of forest
be given the title 'Wood'. His car bumped along the uneven track, bouncing him
around inside and causing him to swear out loud. As he passed between the
wooden posts that marked the entrance to the car park, he saw there were a
number of cars parked there in addition to the police vehicles he'd expected to
see. Presumably their owners hadn't returned from walking dogs or liaising with
their extra-marital lovers. He hadn't decided yet whether he was going to let
any vehicles be taken away. One could belong to the man he hunted. He could be
lingering in the trees, watching the police, laughing at them. Laughing at him.
He spotted Donnelly sitting on the boot of his unmarked Vauxhall, which was
parked next to the uniform patrol who'd found Louise's red Ford Fiesta. An AA
man was standing by in his van, waiting to be given the order to use his box of
tricks to open the abandoned car.
Sean pulled up at a forty-five-degree angle to the car that was now a crime
scene, blocking any other vehicles from driving too close to potentially
precious tyre tracks or footprints. He swung his feet from the carpet of his
car to the surface of the car park, disappointed to feel a rough mixture of
compressed dirt and solid stone connecting with the soles of his shoes; not a
promising surface for recovering useable prints or tracks.
Catching sight of him, Donnelly flicked his cigarette as far as he could away
from the found car, aware of his own DNA soaked into the butt, not wanting to
end up the subject of ridicule at the next office lunch for having contaminated
the crime scene.
Sean made a beeline for the car, calling out to Donnelly while scanning the
ground. 'Let's start tightening things up a bit, shall we?'
'Meaning?'
'Meaning securing the entire area as a crime scene, not just the car itself.
And not dropping fag butts close to the centre of it.'
Donnelly looked in the direction of his discarded cigarette, disappointed by
Sean's lack of appreciation for the distance he'd managed to flick it.
Sean tugged the rubber gloves he'd produced from his pocket over his hands, all
the while surveying the ground around Louise Russell's abandoned car, a mute
mechanical witness to her fate. He could see nothing obvious so moved closer to
the car, slowly circling anti-clockwise, his eyes passing over every last
millimetre of the ground. Donnelly watched silently, knowing when best to leave
Sean to himself - to his own methods.
After a few minutes Sean was back at the spot he'd started from. Again he began
to circumnavigate the car, clockwise this time, his eyes concentrating on the
vehicle itself, searching for anything, anything at all. A trace of the
suspect's blood drawn from his body by a fighting, scratching victim. A scrape
from another vehicle that might have left a paint trace or imprinted a memory
in the mind of whichever motorist had been struck by a red Fiesta that failed
to stop after the accident. Louise had kept the car spotlessly clean - any
visible evidence would have been relatively obvious, but he could see none.
If there were clues to be found on the exterior of the car they must be
invisible to the naked eye. Perhaps they might yet be retrieved with the use of
powders and chemicals, ultraviolet lights and magnification. In the meantime
Sean needed to see inside the car, to feel its stillness before Roddis and the
forensic boys turned it into a science circus.
'Let's get it open,' he said.
Donnelly strode across to the waiting AA van and tapped on the window. The
driver dropped his copy of the Sun and eagerly jumped out, grabbing a bag of
unusual tools from the back.
'Will you be able to get it open?' Donnelly asked, more out of the need for
something to say than because of any doubts.
'It's a Ford,' the AA man answered, heading for the car. 'It'll only take a few
seconds. Which door do you want opening?'
'The passenger door,' Sean told him. 'I'd appreciate it if you could touch as
little as possible.'
'I'll do my best,' he answered, already tugging what looked like an over-sized
metal ruler with a hook at one end from his bag. Sean recognized it, known to
AA men and car thieves alike as a slim-jim. The AA man peeled back the rubber
window seal and slid the metal deep down into the door panel. His face twisted
in concentration as he manoeuvred the slim-jim blindly around the mechanics of
the door, before suddenly jerking it upwards, an audible click letting all
present know the door was now unlocked. The AA man immediately reached for the
door handle, but Sean's hand wrapped around his wrist and stopped him.
'Hasn't been checked for prints yet,' Sean told him.
Once the AA man had been moved away, Sean's gloved hand stretched carefully
towards the handle, one finger hooking under it in the place the suspect was
least likely to have touched. He pulled his finger up and waited for the door
to pop open a fraction, his other hand poised to stop a sudden breeze swinging
it fully open before he was ready. He checked around the now broken seal that
separated the door from the main body of the chassis, keeping an eye out for
any evidence the wind might threaten to take away - a hair pulled from the
suspect's head as he closed the door too quickly, a piece of material torn from
his clothes as he fled from the abandoned car. He saw nothing and allowed the
door to open by a few inches, the smell of the interior flooding out and
catching him unaware, making him recoil at first. He steadied himself then
breathed all the scents in eagerly: cloth, vinyl, rubber and above all else,
her perfume, floral and subtle. But there was something underlying the other
smells, something trying to disguise itself, trying to stay hidden in the
cacophony - the faint trace of something surgical, clinical.
Chloroform, Sean decided. It was not something he'd ever smelt before, but he
knew it had to be. Donnelly broke his concentration.
'Anything?' he called out.
'Chloroform, I think,' Sean answered. 'Get hold of Roddis and have him take a
look at the car in situ before towing it away to the lab.'
'Will do.' Donnelly immediately started punching keys on his phone.
Sean opened the door more fully now, all the while searching for anything that
might be evidence, touching nothing, seeing all as he crouched next to the
opening, bothered by something he couldn't think of, something missing. Without
warning the answer jumped into his head. It was too quiet. He stood upright and
spoke to no one in particular: 'There's no alarm.'
Donnelly looked up from his phone. 'Excuse me?'
'Why's there no alarm?' Sean asked. 'He locked the car, but there's no alarm.'
His heart was beginning to pound a little with the conviction he'd found
something relevant, but his hope was cut short by the watching AA man.
'It's a Ford,' he said.
'So?'
'You lock it with the remote key. One press to lock it and another to arm the
alarm.'
Did that mean anything? Sean asked himself. Had the man he hunted been in so
much of a panic that he'd fled the scene without making sure the alarm was on?
Or had he not wanted the beep of the alarm setting to attract attention to him?
Why lock it at all? He'd already left his palm and fingerprints at the
Russells' house.
Sean had to remind himself not to get too tied up in the knots of
possibilities. All the same, he couldn't stop this man from invading his mind.
As the case went on he would gradually start thinking like his quarry, until
the thoughts of the man he hunted would become his own thoughts. A cold,
uncomfortable feeling washed over him. The days ahead would be joyless and
stressful, his only hope of relief would be finding Louise Russell and the man
who took her. The man who had her now.
He desperately wanted to enter the car, to sit in the driver's seat as her
abductor had done. To check the position of the seat, the mirrors, the steering
wheel. Louise's limp body flashed through his mind, bound and gagged, lying
behind the back seat in the boot of the hatchback. He saw a faceless shadow
driving the car through London traffic with his prisoner, his prize, in the
back, moaning muffled pleas for him to let her go from behind the material
wrapped around her mouth. He saw the faceless shadow looking over his shoulder,
talking to her as he drove, reassuring her everything would be all right, that
he wouldn't harm her, wouldn't touch her. But Sean wasn't about to enter the
car and risk damaging or destroying any invisible evidence waiting to be found
within.
Donnelly came up behind him and made him jump. 'Roddis is on his way,' he
announced.
'Good. Thanks,' Sean replied, hesitating before continuing: 'I need to have a
look in the back.'
'Are you sure that's wise, guv'nor? Roddis will not be pleased.'
'I won't touch anything,' Sean promised. 'I just need a quick look.' He moved
to the back of the car and searched with one finger under the lip of the
hatchback door for the handle, the handle he absolutely knew the suspect would
have touched. He pulled the handle and watched the hatch door rise open with a
pneumatic hiss. He bent inside as much he could without over-balancing and
falling forward, noticing immediately how clean the boot was, like everything
else in the car. Everything was perfect, everything except for the slight
scuffing on the carpeted surface of the boot and the smallest of scratch marks
on the interior panelling close by. Sean knew what it meant.
He pulled away and stood. 'This is where he had her,' he told the listening
Donnelly. 'He tied her, probably gagged her and put her in the boot. You can
see where her shoes have disturbed the carpet and marked the plastic panel.
He's a bold one, our boy. He snatches her from her own home in broad daylight
and casually drives her through mid-morning traffic to this spot. And this is
where his own car was waiting,' he continued, indicating with a sweep of his
hand that the suspect's car would have been on the driver's side of Russell's.
'He pulls up here and waits a few seconds, just long enough to be sure no one's
around. Then he gets out, moving fast, but smoothly. He knows exactly what he's
doing, no panic. He unlocks his own car or van, pulls Russell from the boot of
the Fiesta and forces her into the boot of his. If he used chloroform in the
house then he's unsure whether he can control her without it, so he probably
gives her another dose before trying to move her - but not too much, he doesn't
want to knock her out and end up with a dead weight. He's not strong enough -
if he was, he wouldn't be so reliant on weapons and drugs - he'd physically
overpower her instead. Once he transfers her to his own car, he locks hers and
takes the keys with him. He doesn't stop to wipe any prints or check for
anything else he might have left behind because he doesn't care whether we find
it or not. He has what he wants, the one thing that he cares about. He has her.
He closes the hatch door and carefully drives away. Have you checked for CCTV?'
'There is none,' Donnelly told him.
'Then he knew there wasn't,' Sean insisted. 'He's a planner. None of this
happened by accident. Have the access road checked for cameras. You won't find
any, but check anyway.'
'It'll be done,' Donnelly promised.
Sean closed the hatch door carefully. He looked into the woods, just as the
suspect would have done when he was checking the car cark before moving her. He
still couldn't see the man's face, but already he felt as if he would recognize
him in a second if he saw him. Something he didn't yet fully understand would
enable him to pick this one out in a crowd if only he could get close enough.
That's what he had to do now: let the evidence, let the facts get him close
enough to allow the dark thing inside of him to take him the rest of the way to
finding this madman.
In the early spring the trees still looked wintery and foreboding. Sean felt
himself shiver, as if he was being watched. As if he was being watched from the
inside by some spectre he knew he would eventually find himself face to face
with.
'I've got a really bad feeling about this one,' he confessed to Donnelly. 'I
don't think it's going to end well.' He pinched his temples between the middle
finger and thumb of one hand and tried to squeeze the growing pressure in his
head away before it exploded into a full migraine. 'You wait here with the
motor,' he said. 'I need to get back to the office and start trying to piece
all this together. People are going to be sticking their noses into our
business, so we might as well be ready with a few answers. When Roddis gets
here, leave him with the car and head back to Peckham for a scrum-down.'
'I'll be there as soon as I can.'
Sean didn't hear Donnelly's reply; he was already climbing into his car looking
for Superintendent Featherstone's mobile number with one hand while starting
the ignition, releasing the hand brake and fastening his seat belt with the
other. He still hadn't got around to setting his phone up to be hands-free.
Again he cursed the uneven road as he bounced along, driving too fast and
making it even worse. He had to wait longer than he'd wanted to before
Featherstone answered.
'Boss, it's Sean.'
'Problem?' Featherstone asked bluntly.
'Your missing person case,' said Sean. 'I'm afraid it's an abduction case now.'
'Any idea who took her?'
'Whoever it was, I don't think she knew them.'
'A stranger attack,' Featherstone said. 'That does not bode well.'
'No, sir,' Sean agreed. 'It does not.'
'What do you need from me?'
'Have you got anyone in the media who owes you a favour?'
'Maybe,' Featherstone answered cagily.
'I need to get an appeal out tonight,' Sean explained. 'Ask for public
assistance. He took her in broad daylight and transferred her from one vehicle
to another in a public place. It's possible someone saw something.'
'If someone has taken her, won't an appeal spook him?' said Featherstone. 'We
don't want to force his hand. I don't want to push him into--'
'I understand,' Sean agreed, eager to cut to the chase, 'but I have no choice.
Her family have already worked out what's happened, and now we've found her car
dumped close to a wood in Bromley. If we don't pull out all the stops to find
her, we're leaving ourselves wide open. It's a shitty call to have to make, but
we have no choice.'
'All right,' Featherstone reluctantly agreed. 'I'll call in a few favours, see
if I can get my face on the telly tonight - but no promises. I'll catch up with
you later.' He hung up before Sean could reply.
He tossed his phone into the centre console, finally controlling the car with
two hands, relieved to be back on a smooth road, suddenly remembering he needed
to call Sally, again cursing himself for not having set up his hands-free
system. He found Sally in his contacts and called her number while pushing his
car through the increasingly dense traffic, all the while wishing he had more
time - more time to simply sit and think, to try to become the thing he had to
stop. The sooner he did, the sooner they would catch the man who dumped Louise
Russell's car near the wood. The man who Sean knew would soon dump her body as
casually as he'd abandoned her car, unless he could find him first. Find him
and stop him, any way he knew how.
Sally paced up and down the street outside the Russells' home under the
pretence of checking on the door-to-door team's progress, but in truth she just
needed to get out of the office and get some fresh air, to be away from
sympathetic and suspicious eyes alike. She knew Sean was trying to prevent her
becoming involved in the main body of the investigation, his way of protecting
her, but it wasn't making her feel any better.
She spotted DC Paulo Zukov walking along the street towards her. 'All right
there, Sarge?' Zukov asked in his usual chirpy, mischievous manner.
'You're not in uniform any more,' Sally reminded him. 'You call me Sally now.
Remember?'
'Just being respectful,' Zukov teased. 'But seriously, how are you?'
'Don't try and sound genuine and caring,' Sally chided him unfairly. 'It
doesn't suit you.'
It was water off a duck's back for Zukov. He'd only been in the police six
years, but it had been more than enough to harden his shell. 'Harsh, but fair,'
he replied with a grin, pleased she perceived him as some cynical old
detective, despite his young years and short length of service.
'Have you finished the door-to-door yet?' Sally asked.
'Not quite, but we ain't getting anything interesting anyway and I don't
suppose we will. Door-to-door, waste of bloody time if you ask me.'
'No one did,' Sally reprimanded him, her phone vibrating in her hand
distracting her from their tete-a-tete. Caller ID told her who it was. 'Yes,
guv'nor.'
'We found Russell's car.'
'Any sign of Louise?' Sally knew he'd have said so right out if there had been,
but she asked anyway.
'No,' Sean replied. 'The official line is that she's been taken. That's what I
believe.'
'What's our next move?'
'As much media coverage as we can get, roadblocks, start canvassing a wider
area and wait for forensics to give us something. Where are you?'
'Checking on the door-to-door.'
'They don't need you there. Get back to Peckham as soon as and I'll see you
then.'
'OK,' Sally managed to get in before he hung up, leaving her alone with Zukov.
'Problem?' he asked.
'I'll tell you later,' she muttered, a feeling of dread crawling over her skin.
A suffocating anxiety was spreading through her body like an unstoppable rising
tide turning dry sand wet and heavy. 'I've got to head back to the office.'
The few steps to the car felt like miles and the car door seemed heavy as a
drawbridge as she pulled it open, falling into her seat, feeling for the thick
scars under her blouse, her breath coming in short sporadic bursts. She grasped
the computer case she used as a holdall and frantically searched inside until
she found the two small cardboard packets she needed. She popped two tramadol
from one and six hundred milligrams of ibuprofen from the other into the palm
of her hand and threw them down her throat, swallowing drily. She was glad now
she hadn't concealed a bottle of vodka in the bag as she'd considered doing.
Leaning back with her head on the headrest she closed her eyes, waiting for the
drugs to give her some relief, both physical and psychological. To expel the
memories of Sebastian Gibran breathing into her face as he waited, expected her
to die - of Sebastian Gibran sitting opposite her in an exclusive London
restaurant, smiling and flirting and her liking it. The memories forced her
eyes open. She found herself gazing up the branches of a nearby tree,
dead-looking limbs beginning to burst into life, the little green buds forcing
their way through the hard bark. She thought of Louise Russell's parents, so
normal and unsuspecting, dragged from their comfortable life of cruise-liner
holidays and early evening soap operas into a world they'd only ever seen
fleetingly on the news. She hoped Sean wasn't planning on putting them in front
of the cameras - a tearful appeal from loving parents wanting their precious
child returned to them unharmed. She had a horrible feeling he was, but as she
shook the thought away more unwelcome images rushed her consciousness. Where
was Louise now, right now? Was she looking into the eyes of the man who'd taken
her, the man who meant her harm, the way Sally had looked into Gibran's eyes?
Was she feeling sick with fear the way Sally had? Did she feel suddenly weak
and vulnerable, as impotent as Sally had - like a victim?
A victim. Sally had never realized how much she feared becoming a victim until
it happened. All the power and prestige she'd built up as a detective, a cop,
stripped away by a man whose madness ran so deep even Sean had struggled to
grasp his motivation. She felt the tears beginning to force their way to her
eyes, the pressure of holding them back numbing her brain and dulling her
senses, and all the while the questions banging inside her head - could she
face another killer now each case was all so much more personal to her than
ever before? Could she sit across an interview room from them and resist the
instinct to flee or worse? Would she be able to chase a suspect into a dark
alley in the middle of the night, alone? 'You bastard,' she whispered to the
car. 'I hope you rot in hell.'
A loud rap on the window put her heart into her mouth. It was Zukov. She wound
the window down.
'You OK?' he asked, registering the glassiness in her eyes.
'I'm fine,' she told him. 'Just knackered, that's all.'
Zukov offered his packet of cigarettes to her. 'Smoke?'
'No,' she said bluntly. 'I quit. Remember?' It wasn't true entirely. The fact
was she'd been unable to smoke after the attack, lying for weeks in a medically
induced coma, then weeks more of drifting between this world and another few
would ever see. By the time she could make her own way from her bed to the
hospital garden she'd broken the physical habit, but the psychological
addiction still burned strongly, only the pain in her chest stopping her from
reaching for a packet. 'I need to get back to the office,' she told him,
winding up the window and starting the engine. 'I'll see you later.'
She drove away leaving Zukov standing alone, cigarette in mouth.
'Nice speaking to you too,' Zukov called after her, knowing she couldn't hear
him. He reminded himself to speak with Donnelly about Sally. No one wanted
someone who was going to lose it on the team. The poison of their inability to
cope would affect them all. He was young, but old school. He liked everyone
around him to be solid and predictable, to pretend everything was fine even if
it wasn't. All troubles, be they domestic, health, financial or other, should
be left at home, not brought to work. The job took precedence over everything.
If Sally couldn't handle it any more, then maybe it was time she was moved on.
He dragged on his cigarette and wondered whether they would make him acting
sergeant if Sally went. He saw no reason why not.
Louise Russell sat in the gloom of her cage dressed in the clean clothes he'd
brought her, but despite their pristine condition they made her skin crawl with
revulsion. These weren't her clothes and no matter how much she tried to
quieten her mind, it kept asking her the same question. Whose clothes are they?
Whose clothes were they? She looked across at the shape she knew was Karen
Green and remembered what she had told her: the first few days he'd let Karen
wash and then he'd given her some clean clothes to wear, but the night before
he'd taken Louise, he'd made Karen remove the clothes, his false affection
towards her replaced by violence and lust, an outlet for his sick frustrations.
Was she about to become what Karen was already? And if so, what was he going to
do to Karen?
Desperation to survive forced her into action. 'Karen,' she whispered, just
loud enough to be heard, a barely audible echo reverberating around the hard
walls of their prison. No answer. 'Karen,' she said a little louder. 'We have
to help each other. We can't just wait for someone to find us.' Still no
movement. 'I think he leaves the door open,' she explained. 'When he comes down
here, I think he leaves the door open. The door to this cellar or wherever we
are.' Karen moved a little on the floor of her cage. 'Please, I'm not your
enemy,' Louise promised. 'I know it probably feels that way, but that's what he
wants. He does it on purpose, to stop us helping each other.'
'How do you know?' Karen broke her silence with a quiet, defeated voice.
'How do I know what?'
'How do you know he leaves the door open?'
'Because the last time he came here there was daylight. I heard him opening the
door and then there was daylight and the light stayed, even once he was down
here, the light stayed. Next time one of us is out of these cages we have to
try and free whoever isn't. Together I think we can overpower him.'
'How would you get the key to open the cage?' Karen asked, already doubtful and
afraid of the consequences of any attempt to rescue themselves.
'Take him by surprise,' Louise explained. 'Throw the tray in his face and kick
him where it hurts. Just keep hitting him until he's the one cowering on this
stinking floor. Take the keys off him while he's still confused. Then open the
cage and free whichever one of us is locked in. Then we can both kick the
bastard to death.'
'It won't work,' Karen argued. 'And if we try, it'll only make things worse.
He'll be so angry, it'll just make things worse.'
'How could things be worse?' Louise asked, exasperated.
'We could be dead.'
Karen's response silenced Louise for a moment while she tried to come up with
another way to reach her. 'Are you hungry?' she asked. 'Sorry. Stupid question.
You must be. I have some food left, maybe I could get it over to you.'
'No,' Karen snapped. 'If he sees you've tried he'll blame me and then you know
what he'll do. You've seen it.'
They both sat in silence for a long while before Karen spoke again. 'I was
supposed to be going to Australia. The day he took me. I had everything packed,
everything arranged. Six months of travelling, maybe longer. I might even have
stayed there. But he took me and brought me here. Jesus Christ, why is this
happening to me?'
Louise waited for the crying to stop, then asked, 'Is there anyone special in
your life?'
'No,' came the answer, followed by more silence.
'I'm married. My husband's name is John. We were going to start a family. My
God, John. He must be beside himself. Blaming himself. I miss him so much.
Please, God, let me see him again.' She felt sorrow and loss threatening to
engulf her. It wasn't what she needed now and she pushed all thoughts of home
and lovers away. 'Karen, I need to ask you something ...'
'What?'
'These clothes I'm wearing - are they the same clothes he made you wear? Are
these the clothes he took from you before I got here?' There was no answer.
'Please,' she tried. 'I need to know.' She waited, dreading the answer.
'I can't be sure,' Karen lied. 'They look the same, but I can't be sure.'
'They are, aren't they?' Louise pressed. 'Aren't they?'
'Yes,' Karen almost shouted before returning to a whisper. 'Now you know. Now
you know what's going to happen to you.'
Trying to comprehend the enormity of what she was being told, Louise looked
across the cellar at the wretched creature in the opposite cage, filthy and
bruised, covered in his foul scent, with his diseased seed forced inside her.
She wouldn't let it happen to her. She couldn't let it happen to her.
She tried to imagine Karen away from this hell, in Australia somewhere, on a
beach, happy and tanned, her attractive young body drawing attention from the
men showing off on the beach. No cares, no worries, young and alive, enjoying
the adventure of a lifetime. The image almost made her happy, but then it made
her sad, replaced by thoughts of herself at home, cooking something in the
kitchen while John tried to help but only succeeded in getting in the way.
Herself happy and looking forward to having a bump in her belly and shopping
for tiny clothes. Feeling safe. Above all else, she feels safe.
What wouldn't she give to feel safe again? Louise closed her eyes, promising
herself that she would never undervalue that feeling ever again, just so long
as she could live through this.
Karen's voice broke the silence. 'When he takes away your clothes, when he
comes to you the way he comes to me, if he offers you drugs, take them. It
makes it easier. You'll feel less.' Then she rolled over so her back faced
Louise, leaving her alone in the silent darkness, happy thoughts of her home
and husband chased away by the gathering demons of things yet to come.
Sean paced the floor of his office, listening to Donnelly updating him on the
progress of the forensic examination of Louise Russell's car. Roddis's team had
searched the area around the vehicle, but found nothing. The car had then been
loaded on to a flat-back lorry, covered in a plastic tarpaulin and carried off
to the forensic car-pound at Charlton, where it would be minutely examined
inside and out. By the time they had finished it would be little more than a
shell, but any evidence would have been carefully and meticulously bagged and
tagged before being sent off to the various private forensic laboratories that
had taken over from the once fabled do-all government-funded lab at Lambeth.
Another stroke of genius from the powers that be, granting access to highly
sensitive material to commercial enterprises all for the sake of saving a few
pounds.
His eye was drawn to movement in the main office: Sally had come in and was
making her way to her desk. He summoned her with a jut of his chin. She dropped
her computer case on her chair and headed straight for them, eyes down and
shoulders slumped. Watching her, Sean was again reminded how much he missed the
person she used to be. She walked into his office and sat without being asked.
'What's happening?' she demanded.
'Not enough,' Sean replied.
'Whatever that means,' she said, oblivious to her own mood. Sean let it slide.
'We've been on this for twenty-four hours. He snatched her in broad daylight in
her own car. He's a planner and he's organized. He would have checked her house
before he took her, made sure he couldn't be seen.'
'So he's been there before,' Donnelly surmised.
'Yes, but when?' Sean asked. 'Sally, have the door-to-door team ask neighbours
to think back at least a couple of weeks for sightings of strangers hanging
around.' She scribbled something in her notebook. Sean took it as a sign she
understood.
'What else?' said Donnelly. 'Any insights?' Sean knew the question was directed
solely at him.
'No,' he answered, not entirely truthfully. 'Other than I believe he's local
and probably lives alone in a decent-sized house or maybe somewhere reasonably
isolated. He needs space and privacy.'
'For what?' Sally joined in.
'I don't know yet,' Sean answered, 'but I know it's bad. Sorry.' Sally looked
at the floor again. Sean wanted to bring her back. 'But you're right. We need
to work out why he takes them. When we understand that, we'll be that much
closer to catching him.'
'Them?' Sally stopped him. 'You said them.'
'I meant her,' he lied again.
'No you didn't,' Sally insisted. Sean didn't reply.
'Oh, bloody marvellous,' Donnelly exclaimed. 'You mean there's going to be
more?'
'Only if we don't stop him in time,' Sean pointed out.
'But surely we have to consider the possibility this is a one-off, that for
whatever reason Louise Russell was special to him?' Donnelly insisted. 'Special
enough to make him want to take her.'
'She was special to him,' Sean agreed, 'but not because of any relationship
between them. She was a stranger to him and he to her. He chose her quite
deliberately, maybe because of the way she looked or maybe just because of the
type of house she lived in - I don't know yet. But whatever he saw in her,
he'll see in others. That much I'm sure of. If we don't find him, there will be
others.'
Sally came back to them. 'There was no forced entry,' she pointed out. 'So
maybe she knew whoever took her.'
'She was young and strong and in her own home. She had no reason to be fearful
of a knock at the door. Do you only open the door to people you know?' Sean
regretted his question as soon as it was out of his mouth. Sally unflinchingly
held his gaze, her misting eyes accusing him. His desk phone saved him from
making it worse by ringing before he had a chance to say sorry, the last thing
Sally wanted to hear. He snatched it like a drowning man reaching for a
life-jacket. 'DI Corrigan.'
'Andy Roddis here,' announced the forensic team leader. 'Bad news, I'm afraid.
No match on file for the prints we lifted from the Russell home. Sorry.'
'Damn it,' Sean said calmly, despite the twisting in his guts. 'I wasn't
expecting that.'
'Nor me,' Roddis confided.
'What about the car? Anything yet?'
'Too soon to tell, but I expect to at least find his prints. They won't help us
identify him prior to his arrest, but once we have him they'll certainly help
get a conviction.'
'OK. Thanks, Andy. Keep me posted.' He hung up and turned to the others. 'His
prints aren't on file.' They knew what it meant - the man they were looking for
had no convictions.
'I was bloody sure this one would have previous, even if it was just a bit of
flashing on Bromley Common,' Donnelly said.
'It's unfortunate,' Sean agreed. 'But there must be something in his past. He
may not have been convicted, but you can bet he'll have been arrested and
charged somewhere down the line. This guy is in our records, we just need to
dig around till we find him: run checks on local sexual offenders who've come
to our notice but have never been convicted of anything. And let's check on any
local stalkers - top-end only though, not ones who've gone after celebrities
and footballers. Concentrate on the care-in-the-community types. Our boy hasn't
just jumped in at this level, he's been building up to this for years,
convictions or no convictions. Anything else?'
'Sounds straightforward enough,' Donnelly said. 'All we need now is about
another hundred detectives and we'll have him nicked by lunchtime tomorrow.'
'Well, that ain't going to happen,' Sean confirmed what he already knew. 'So
let's do the best we can with what we've--'
A ripple of disturbance from the main office caused him to break off and look
through the Perspex that separated him from his team. Featherstone was making
his way across the main office, stopping periodically, handing out pep talks to
one and all en route.
'Heads up, people,' Sean warned Sally and Donnelly. A few seconds later
Featherstone was knocking on his office door frame and entering without being
invited.
'Afternoon, boss,' Sean said. 'Only a step backwards since we last spoke, I'm
afraid.'
'How so?'
'It appears whoever we're looking for has no previous. Prints found at the
Russells' house came back "no match".'
'That sounds unlikely.' Featherstone raised an eyebrow.
'Unlikely or not, it's a fact. And any DNA we find will go the same way.'
'So,' Featherstone continued, 'we'll have to find him by old-fashioned means -
shoe leather and hard work, folks.'
'With respect, sir,' said Sally, 'we're going to need more than that if we want
to catch him quickly.'
'Agreed,' Featherstone contradicted himself. 'Which is why I've sorted out a
media blitz. ITV and BBC will put out an appeal for information on their local
channels tonight, with a special appearance by yours truly. I'm still working
on Sky, but they're holding out for more details than we want to give them at
this time.'
'What about the papers?' Sean asked.
'The papers will follow the TV channels' lead.' He made a show of looking at
his watch. 'Right, I need to be at the Yard by six to meet the TV people, so
I'm off. Keep me posted.' Dismissing them with a nod, he strode out of the
office.
'God save us from senior officers,' Donnelly said when Featherstone was well
away.
'He's not so bad,' Sean reminded him. 'We could do a lot worse.'
'If you say so.' Sean let it slide. 'Me, I'm off to chase my daily quota of
useless leads.' Meaning he was heading to the pub, Sean thought. 'Care to give
me a hand, Sally?'
'Not just now,' she answered. 'I need to tidy a few things up, make a few phone
calls.'
'Suit yourself,' sniffed Donnelly. 'Then I shall bid you farewell. If I don't
see you later, I'll see you tomorrow.' With that he headed for the main office
in search of recruits to buy him a drink.
'He's got the right idea,' Sean told Sally.
'How so?' she asked.
'Get some rest and recreation now, while you still can. I get the definite
feeling this will be the last chance for some time. Once that media appeal goes
out, the spotlight will fall on us.'
'Just go home and forget about Louise Russell until tomorrow?'
'That's not what I meant,' said Sean. 'It's just things are going to start
happening tomorrow, I can feel it. And they're not going to stop until this
case is finished, one way or another.'
'You think she's already dead, don't you?'
Sean sat heavily in his chair, caught off balance by her question.
'Maybe not ... It depends on his cycle.'
'What cycle?'
'Just an idea,' Sean explained. 'A theory.'
'What theory?' she demanded, losing patience with his secrecy.
'He's taking a lot of risks. Calculated risks, but risks all the same. He
doesn't just do to them whatever it is he wants to do in their homes, because
he needs more time with them. And if he needs time with them then the chances
are there is a timescale. I think he fantasized about her for a while before
taking her and transporting her into his living fantasy - a fantasy that will
have a beginning, middle and end. All of which suggests a timescale. It might
be a week, a month - I don't know yet.'
'Or it might be a lot less?' Sally questioned.
'Might be,' Sean admitted. 'There's no way of telling until he releases her or
we find her.'
'Find her body, you mean.'
'We have to be prepared for that possibility.'
'Possibility or probability?' Sally asked.
'You know how this works.' Sean shrugged. 'Look, if it's too much too soon, I'd
understand. If you want to keep this one at arm's length it's not a problem. I
can make that happen.'
'Don't make allowances for me.'
'You've got nothing to prove,' he told her and meant it. She didn't reply. 'Go
home, Sally. Get some rest. I'll call you if anything happens.'
She slowly rose and headed for the door, turning when she got there. 'One thing
...'
'Go on,' said Sean.
'I want to be in on the interviews. When we catch him, I want to sit in on the
interviews.'
'OK.' Sean granted the request, knowing why she needed to sit in. She nodded
once and left him alone.
Sean scanned the office for anyone heading his way. When he was happy no one
would require his immediate attention, he lifted the phone on his desk and
punched in a sequence of numbers. It was answered on the fifth ring.
'Hello.'
'Dr Canning, it's Sean Corrigan.'
'And what can I do for you, Inspector?'
'Nothing yet,' said Sean. 'This is more of a heads-up to expect something in
the next few days. Something a little more unusual than the norm.'
'Ah,' Canning replied. 'Your speciality seems to be things that are a little
more unusual than the norm.'
'What can I say? Somebody somewhere must like me.'
'So what should I be expecting?' Canning sounded intrigued. 'What does that
crystal ball of yours tell you, Inspector?'
He nodded as if Canning could see him. 'When it happens it'll be an outside
body drop, in a wooded area, possibly in water. The victim will be a white
woman in her late twenties. Cause of death will be suffocation or strangulation
with evidence of drugs having been administered to her. That's all I'm prepared
to speculate for the time being,' Sean explained. 'But I'll need you to examine
the body in situ.'
'That's quite a lot of information you have there, considering this person is
still alive,' said Canning. 'I am correct in assuming they are still alive?'
'You are,' Sean admitted, but he'd say no more.
'Very well,' Canning agreed. 'I shall await your call - and thanks for the
warning. I don't usually get advance notice of such things in my business.'
'No,' Sean answered. 'I don't suppose you do.'
'Until the unhappy event then,' Canning said.
'Indeed,' Sean agreed and hung up, already regretting making the call. He knew
forensically it made good sense - forewarning Canning meant he could prepare
himself and his pathology equipment for an outside scene examination, possibly
saving as much as a few vital hours. Outside scenes could deteriorate
incredibly quickly, especially if whoever took her went to the trouble of
dumping her body in flowing water, although Sean doubted he would; he'd made no
effort to destroy evidence at the other scenes so why would he when it came
time to rid himself of her body? Mother Nature was no respecter of the dead or
of those trying to gather the evidence to give them justice. But nonetheless he
wished he hadn't made the call. He felt soiled, complicit, as if he'd somehow
sealed Louise Russell's fate.
Shaking his regrets away, he buried his head in the ever-growing pile of
reports spreading across his desk.
Thomas Keller arrived home still upset and agitated by the confrontation he'd
had at work. His ageing Ford slid to a stop on the dust road outside his ugly
cottage just as the spring day was turning into a cold, cloudless night. His
mind was racing so much he almost forgot to turn the lights off and lock the
door. He fumbled for his house keys, desperate to release the pressure he felt
hammering in his head and tightening in his groin. Once inside, he tore through
the cluttered cottage, not stopping to turn on any lights, tripping over
unpacked boxes and piles of old magazines in the rush to get to his bedroom.
The frantic pace came to a halt only when his hand was within reach of his
special drawer, where he kept his special things. He froze, heart drumming on
the walls of his chest, listening to the silence, feeling the air around him
until he was certain he was alone. With a sudden burst he pulled the drawer
open, pushing aside the mish-mash of clothes until he found the bundle of
letters bound together with an elastic band. He would have liked to linger, to
unwrap the magical package the way he planned to undress Sam when they were
finally together, but his excitement was overpowering, forcing him to rush. He
yanked the elastic band away and let the letters spill on to his unmade bed,
grabbing at the nearest one, running his fingers across the name on the front
of the envelope as if he was reading Braille. He looked down at the other
envelopes, his eyes leaping from one to the next, all bearing the same name -
Louise Russell.
Most of the letters were the usual bills and credit card statements, although
some were personal, but they were all precious to him, they all brought her
closer to him, entwined his life with hers. These letters had been the
beginning of their relationship. It had taken him months to collect them, as he
couldn't risk arousing her suspicions that her mail was being stolen. Somehow
he'd been disciplined enough to limit himself to a few items each month, mostly
things she would never miss, resisting the almost unbearable temptation to take
everything that looked personal. Every time he needed to be with her, he turned
to the letters.
He knew the letter he held in his hand was from an old friend of hers who now
lived on the other side of the world, in a place where he suspected mail
regularly went missing. He slipped the letter from its envelope and began to
read the hellos and how are yous, the apologies for not writing sooner, the
references to a past life they'd shared as young girls. The more he read the
more agitated he felt, the more his uncontrollable desire engulfed him. He
dropped to his knees by his bedside as if he was about to pray, but his hands
did not come together. Holding the letter in one hand, he slid the other hand
slowly under his waistband, moving tentatively towards his swelling sex. As he
touched himself a moan escaped his mouth in anticipation of the pleasure and
release he would soon feel washing through his body. He gripped himself tightly
and began to move his hand back and forth, gently at first, but then quickly,
desperately, as he failed to reach a full erection, the frustration overtaking
any thoughts of ecstasy, causing his penis to grow ever more flaccid in his
palm.
Cursing and issuing silent threats in his mind, he leapt to his feet and
snatched another bundle of letters from the drawer, held together by an elastic
band just as the others had been. His eyes fleetingly rested on a third bundle
of letters and a fourth and a fifth, before returning to the one in his hand.
He checked the name on the top envelope - Karen Green. Yes, he told himself,
this was all her fault. She was ruining everything with her jealous lies,
deliberately coming between him and Sam. But he knew how to deal with her. He
knew what he had to do. Throwing her letters on the floor, he tore off his
postman's uniform and began rifling through a pile of dirty clothes on the
floor until he found his tracksuit. He tugged it on and stomped to the kitchen.
The narrow cupboard by the back door held a number of illicit items. After a
moment's thought he selected the electric cattle prod he'd found and repaired
when he first bought the buildings and land from the local council for a
bargain price, other potential buyers having been put off by its history of
animal cruelty and slaughter. The land was everything he'd been waiting and
praying for - everything he'd been saving for, putting aside most of his
earnings for years until finally he'd amassed enough to buy it, the land and
buildings that meant he could begin to prepare for a life with Sam. Once he'd
bought the land he'd immediately started his search for her, but it had been
difficult to tell who Sam was now - so many years had passed and her mind had
been so poisoned, any one of them could be her. He had no choice but to work
his way through them until he found the real one. No matter how many of them
tried to make him look a fool. He knew what to do with people who tried to make
him look a fool.
With a final glance at the double-barrelled shotgun that held pride of place,
he grabbed the keys to the cellar from their hook and closed the door. Then he
stumbled to the bathroom, pulling the cabinet open and taking out a first-aid
box. He opened it and removed one of the syringes and a large phial of
alfentanil. Taking the safety cap from the syringe, he expertly eased it into
the phial, drawing out fifty millilitres of the anaesthetic before replacing
the cap.
Now that he had everything he needed, he made his way outside, striding across
the yard, the syringe in his trouser pocket, the cattle prod gripped in his
hand. But when he reached the metal door he froze, the absolute clarity of what
he had to do suddenly deserting him, the enormity of it almost too much
comprehend.
You have no choice, he told himself. She will destroy everything. She's too
dangerous to ignore. He knew he was right, and with that belief his strength
and purpose returned. He unlocked the padlock and pulled the cellar door aside,
jumping down the stairs two at a time into the darkness below, his usual
caution and fear swept away by the need to rid himself of her.
Both women felt the change in his bold approach. For a brief moment Louise
allowed herself to believe it was their rescuers pounding down the stairs. But
as the overhead bulb flooded the cellar with light she saw her hope was a false
one and tried to push herself deep into the corner of her wire cell. Like a
snake charmer watching for the cobra's strike, her eyes never left him as he
crossed the room, his right hand gripping a strange-looking rod. She soon
realized he wasn't remotely interested in her. It was as if she didn't exist.
He had come for Karen.
His eyes appeared quite red as they reflected the light from overhead, his face
expressionless as he moved towards her, intent on some sick purpose. Karen
cowered in what was now the safest place in the room for her to be. He pointed
the cattle prod at her. 'It's time for you to leave,' he told her.
Karen knew what he meant, knew he wasn't going to simply release her so she
could tell the world what he had done. There would be no happy reunion with her
friends and family. 'No,' she begged him, 'please let me stay. I'll be good.
I'll be very good. I'll do all the things you want me to. I'll make you happy,
just like when you first brought me here, remember?'
'Don't talk to me.' His voice was steady and cold, without feeling. She was
nothing to him now, merely a problem he needed to deal with.
'Don't do this, please, I'm begging you,' Karen almost shouted, her tears
slurring her words, horror and disbelief etched into her contorted face.
He opened the hatch in the side of her cage. 'Put your arm through,' he
ordered. 'Put your arm through and I won't hurt you. Do as you're told.'
'I can't,' Karen wailed, 'please God, I can't.'
'Do it or you'll make me very angry,' he growled, lips narrowing as the
feelings of anger and disgust towards her began to crawl back into his soul.
'If you make me angry I'll have to use this until you do as I tell you.' He
held the cattle prod close to the wire so she could see it, although he doubted
she would know what it was.
'I don't want to make you angry,' Karen pleaded, 'but don't make me give you my
arm.'
'Damn you,' he suddenly yelled, making both women flinch with fear. 'Damn you
to hell - do as you're told.' Without warning he thrust the cattle prod through
the wire and into Karen's ribcage. Her scream was deafening in the confined
space, the pain it described lingering in the room as she fell on her side,
back exposed as she tried to protect her burning ribs.
His eyes grew wider as a smile fattened his lips. He thrust the prod towards
her again, his smile turning to a snarl as he pushed it hard into her back. Her
second scream wasn't as deafening as the first, the pain in her spine causing
her to arch unnaturally backwards, squeezing her already empty lungs.
Louise watched the torture from her own cage with both fear and rage. 'Leave
her alone,' she shouted. 'You fucking coward, leave her alone.' But her demands
were ignored, as if she wasn't even there.
'Put your arm through the hatch,' he told Karen, sounding calmer now as the
room fell silent. After a few seconds she began to stir, struggling to her
hands and knees and crawling the three feet to the other side of the cage, her
fingers curling around the wire as she slowly dragged herself to the height of
the hatch and slid her arm through, quietly crying in surrender. 'Good,' he
said, pulling the syringe from his pocket and discarding the cattle prod. He
tugged the cap from the needle and took hold of her arm. 'Keep still,' he
warned her and began to search for a vein.
It was proving harder than he thought. He regretted not having brought
something to use as a tourniquet to swell the blood vessels in the crook of her
arm. Tutting in exasperation he plunged the needle in, but was sure he hadn't
found a vein. He pulled it out without care and pushed it deep into the crook
of her arm a second time, the pain making her struggle. 'Be still,' he hissed
into her face, but again he'd missed his mark. Sweat was dripping from him as
his frustration mounted. He wrenched the needle free and immediately shoved it
back in, a satisfied noise leaking from his mouth as he saw the needle had
found its mark. Too quickly he pushed the alfentanil from the syringe and into
her vein, the surging drug agonizingly painful as it made the blood inside her
body feel as if it was turning to ice, rushing around her body, slowing her
breathing and relaxing her muscles, her mind spinning as if she was seriously
drunk. He pulled the needle free and released her arm, watching her as she slid
to the floor, conscious but defenceless.
Like a predator wary of its wounded prey, he deactivated the cattle prod and
used it as a stick to poke his victim, stabbing it hard into her back and
ribcage. Karen groaned each time he jabbed her, limply trying to ward away the
stick. Satisfied, he smiled a sickly grin and moved to the main door of her
cage, unlocked it and entered.
For a few moment he stood over her, still cautious, still using the prod to
ensure she was no threat to him. Then he suddenly snapped into action,
discarding the cattle prod and rushing at her, just as he'd practised, grabbing
a fistful of the hair on top of her head, slipping his other hand under her
jaw, dragging her across the floor of her cage and into the main body of the
cellar.
Louise shrank into a ball, pressing her eyes shut and covering her ears against
the screams.
'Get up,' he told Karen, quietly at first, then louder. 'Get up.' He knew he
wouldn't be able to pull her up the stairs; the effort of dragging her from the
cage had drained most of his strength. 'Get up!' he screamed.
Karen tried to speak but could only mumble, the alfentanil numbing her mind and
tongue. The adrenalin of anger breathed some new strength into him as he
crouched next to her and draped her arm around his shoulders, lifting her
weight with his burning legs, the veins in his neck swelling blue under the
strain. Once he began to walk he found she could take most of her own weight as
she moved one leg in front of the other, heading in whatever direction he led
her, struggling to recall where she was and why she was there.
'Am I going home now?' she managed to whisper, her eyes trying to focus on the
stranger who was going to take her from this place.
'Yes,' he lied, 'just keep walking. I'm going to take you home now.'
Louise had opened her eyes to the unfolding scene and her ears to his lies.
'Leave her alone,' she begged. 'Please don't hurt her. She won't be able to
tell the police anything. She doesn't even know where we are.'
'No,' he shouted back. 'I can't do that. She's too dangerous. She could ruin
everything for us. I can't let that happen.'
He headed for the stairs, Karen obediently holding on to him. It took him
several minutes to reach the top, the task of removing a drugged woman from the
cellar far more difficult than he'd thought it would be. Once outside, he
propped her against the wall while he slammed the heavy door shut and clasped
the lock back into place, Louise's screams from below virtually inaudible now.
'Where are you taking me?' Karen asked, slurring the words.
'I told you,' he replied in a mock-friendly voice, 'I'm taking you home.'
Gripping her around the bicep, he marched her across the yard, stopping several
times as she fell, tripping on the clutter she couldn't see in the dark or
through the clouds of the anaesthetic. After the short, perilous journey they
reached his Ford. He popped open the boot and sat her on the edge, gently
pushing her chest so she fell back, lifting her legs and folding them neatly
into the tight space. The fingers of her right hand curled around the rim of
the boot as she sensed danger.
'What's happening?' she asked, confused, desperately trying to make sense of
her situation.
'Shut up and be quiet,' he hissed, lifting his foot and stamping down on her
fingers, slamming the boot the second she recoiled in pain.
His heart was pumping so fast as he jumped into the driver's seat he feared he
wouldn't be able to keep control long enough to do what he knew he must do. He
paused for a moment, breathing deeply and slowly, calming his mind and body,
thinking about the task ahead, the route he would take to the place he'd
already chosen - the way he'd take her from the car, the way he'd walk her into
the woods and finally, the way he'd rid himself of his mistake.
John Russell sat alone in the kitchen of what he and Louise had dreamed would
one day be their family home. He sipped his whisky and water, feeling ever more
guilty as he remembered the relief when the police had told him they were sure
Louise hadn't simply run off with another man.
Detective Constable Fiona Cahill entered the room, disturbing his solitude and
grief. 'Are you all right?' she asked gently.
Russell looked up from his drink at the tall, handsome woman in her
mid-thirties standing in his kitchen, her short hazel hair cut for style and
function, her intelligent green eyes examining him. 'Why are you here?' he
answered her question with one of his own.
'I'm the Family Liaison Officer, remember. That kind of makes me your minder
until everything gets sorted out.' He didn't respond. 'I'm here to help you
with anything you need, to answer any questions you may have about what we're
doing and what we intend to do. This can all be a bit confusing if you're not
used to it - scary even.' She noticed a slight contraction of his pupils that
betrayed his fears. 'It's my job to try and make it that much more bearable -
as far as I can, anyway.'
'Why do I need a Family Liaison Officer?' he asked without feeling. 'Aren't
they usually assigned to the families of murder victims?'
DC Cahill managed not to look away. 'Not always,' she reassured him, 'there's
no fixed rule, really. We often assign Family Liaison Officers in kidnaps,
vulnerable people, that sort of thing.'
'But you're not expecting a ransom demand, are you?' he asked, his eyes growing
ever more dull and lifeless, reminding her of a stabbing victim she'd held
until he was dead, back in her days as a rookie in uniform. She shook the
memory away.
'No,' she answered truthfully. 'We're not expecting a ransom demand. If it was
going to happen, it would have by now.'
'What then?' Russell snapped at her. 'None of this makes sense. Who would take
her? Why would anyone do that?'
'I'm afraid a lot of the people we deal with make no sense, but you mustn't
give up hope.' DC Cahill struggled to find words of encouragement. 'If anyone
can find her, it's DI Corrigan. Trust me, this case couldn't be in better
hands. We all just need to stay positive.'
'But that won't make any difference, will it? It doesn't matter whether I stay
positive or whether I think the worst. It won't make any difference. It's like
having cancer: some people swear they're going to beat it and then six months
later they're dead, while others almost give in to the disease as soon as
they're diagnosed, but live until they're ninety. It doesn't matter what we
think - it's already been decided.'
DC Cahill knew he spoke the truth, but her training and experience wouldn't let
her agree with him. 'You probably need to eat something,' she said.
'No thanks, I'm not hungry.' DC Cahill saw the tears welling in his eyes,
eventually growing too heavy and running down his cheeks like tiny spring
streams. 'I just want her back, you know. That's all I want. I just want her
back. I don't care what's happened to her, I don't even care what happens to
the bastard that took her - I just want her back.'
Thomas Keller drove along the single-track road that led to Three Halfpenny
Wood, in Spring Park, Addington, a few miles south of London. He drove with the
lights off, searching for the spot he'd found several weeks previously, but it
had been daytime then and now in the dark and rain, with no street-lighting, it
was proving more difficult than he'd expected to find it again. He slowed to a
crawl, trying to locate the giant oak tree that marked the place where he would
stop. Then he saw it, black branches moving in the wind, making the cold air
around it sing. Relief washed over him as he put the car into neutral and let
it coast to a stop without touching his brakes. He turned the engine off and
stepped into the freezing drizzle that blew into his face making him feel even
more alive and awake.
Keller stood by the side of his car, as alert as the nocturnal creatures that
hid in the wood watching him, every sense burning with concentration as he
listened and watched for movement, tasting the air for the presence of others.
Only after several minutes, once he was totally sure he was alone, did he move
to the back of the car, filling his lungs with the night air and tugging the
hood of his tracksuit top over his head to protect him from the rain before
opening the boot and staring down on the terrified woman curled into a tight
ball inside.
He reached in and gripped her wrist, pulling her hard, trying to drag her from
the boot, but he wasn't strong enough to lift the dead weight she had become.
'Get out,' he ordered her in a loud, flat voice. 'It's time for you to go.'
'No,' Karen pleaded. 'I don't want to.'
'I'm letting you go,' he lied, 'but you need to get out of the car.'
'I don't believe you. I don't believe you.'
Keller felt panic rising in his chest, the fear that someone might discover him
here in the woods in the dead of night with a near-naked woman in the boot of
his car. He had to do something. Leaning into the boot, he grabbed the small,
stunted baseball bat he kept there and waved it in front of Karen's face. 'Get
out or I swear I'll hurt you.'
'Leave me alone,' she begged him. 'Please don't hurt me.'
'Get out of the car and I won't.' He spat the words into her face, panic
threatening to take away what little control he had left, but still she
wouldn't do as he commanded. 'Get out of the fucking car,' he screamed as
loudly as he dared, the wind and rain swallowing his words before they could
travel more than a few feet, but she continued to cower in the boot.
He raised the bat above shoulder height and brought it smashing down on to her
knee, the pain slicing through the alfentanil and making her scream. Again he
raised the bat, this time smashing it down on to her elbow, her next scream
merging with her first. Wrapping a hank of hair around his fist, he pulled as
hard as he could, partially dragging her as she scrambled from the boot and
fell to her knees on the wet gravel road. He slammed the boot shut and pushed
the bat into the waistband of his loose tracksuit bottoms, his eyes never
leaving the cold, wet, shivering creature kneeling before him, the drizzle
sticking to her body, making her olive skin look like the sea at night. He slid
his hands under her armpits and pulled her to her feet, immediately pushing her
towards the forest that waited at the side of the road.
She stumbled across the grass verge and into the dark, foreboding trees, the
shadow and musky smell of him close behind her, shoving her forward and then
helping her to her feet whenever she fell, marching her deeper into the forest.
Soon her feet were covered in cuts from the brambles that snaked across the
ground. She tried to turn to face him, wanting him to see her face as she
pleaded not to die in this godforsaken place, but each time she turned he
shoved her in the back, sometimes knocking her to the ground as she tripped on
unseen snares. 'Please,' she implored the trees in front of her, 'just let me
go and I swear I won't tell anyone. Please, Jesus, I swear to God I won't tell
anyone.'
'You have no god,' he sneered, gripping her hair and twisting it tight. 'You
betrayed me, Sam. You let them keep us apart. Your parents, the teachers, they
all lied and you believed them. You turned your back on me. You abandoned me
and left me alone, Sam, you left me all alone.'
'I'm sorry,' she told him, playing his game, sensing one last chance to save
herself. 'I won't ever leave you again, I promise, I swear to God.' The
anaesthetic was wearing off, but still she felt so weak and confused, it was
difficult to keep up with what he was saying, difficult to pick her way through
the labyrinth of his distorted mind.
'Do you know what happened to me after you left me?' he asked. 'Do you know
what they did to me in school, in the care home? The things they made me do?'
'I'm sorry,' she tried to touch his conscience. 'It wasn't my fault. I wanted
to stay with you, but they took you away. I couldn't find you,' she rambled,
hoping something she said would ring true with whatever he was talking about,
would make him pause and think before he did to her what she was increasingly
sure he would.
'I'm sorry,' he said, his voice devoid of emotion, 'but you betrayed me then
and you'd betray me again.' He stopped walking, his hand resting on her
shoulders, pulling her to a halt.
'What's happening?' she asked through choking sobs, trying to turn to face him.
'Don't turn around,' he warned her, 'don't look at me. Now, take your clothes
off.'
She hugged herself against the drizzle that had turned to icy rain, the wind
driving it hard into her face, washing away the dirt and blood from her ordeal
in the cellar. She looked up at the tree branches swaying high above her head,
clouds sweeping fast across the dark blue night sky, and she knew she was deep
in the forest, where no one would see her plight or hear her screams for mercy.
'Take off your clothes,' he repeated.
Karen shivered in the cold, her semi-naked body turning pale with the loss of
temperature, her lips sky blue. 'I don't have clothes,' she told him, her voice
pathetic with surrender.
'What you have,' he insisted, 'take them off.' Her hands went to the filthy
underwear she wore as she realized what he wanted her to do, her legs nearly
buckling under the weight of his cursed command. 'Do it,' he hissed, his voice
impatient. 'Do it quickly. I'm not going to touch you.'
Karen slowly reached her arms behind her back, the bruises from the previous
week reminding her of what she'd already suffered at his hands, the pains in
her arms and shoulders making it almost impossible to reach the fastening on
the strap of the bra. Eventually her straining, stretching fingers found and
released it. She managed to catch the bra as it fell, pressing it hard against
her breasts, refusing to let it fall away and leave her exposed. She felt a
sharp jab in her spine that stole her breath.
'Let it fall to the ground,' he demanded. 'I need it.'
Once more she tried to face him, to connect with him somehow, but his anger
made her quickly turn away.
'Don't look at me!' he snapped. 'I told you not to look at me. Do as you're
told and let it fall.'
She felt another jab in the spine, her sobbing ignored. Slowly she released her
hold of the bra she'd once hated but now clung to as if it was her life itself.
It fell to the ground, almost floating to the brown leaves and dirt on the
forest floor. 'The rest,' he said. 'And the rest.' There wasn't the slightest
trace of compassion in his voice.
'No, please,' she appealed to him, to any human decency he may have left. 'I'm
begging you, please just let me go. I swear, I swear I won't tell anybody.'
'Take the rest off,' he ignored her pleas. 'Do it quickly.'
She felt something solid connect with the side of her head, hard enough to
split her ear and dull her world, but not violent enough to knock her down. She
clasped both hands to her bleeding ear, her mouth contorted with pain.
'Take the rest off,' he insisted, 'or you'll get more of the same. You'll get
everything you deserve for what you did to me, Judas.'
She slipped her thumbs under the sides of her soiled knickers and pulled them
down over her hips, letting them slide to her ankles as her arms once more
crossed her breasts. She stood in the silence of the night, its purity only
spoilt by the sound of him breathing behind her, fast and deep, as if he was
close to an asthmatic attack.
Thomas Keller raised the bat above his head and closed his eyes as he brought
it down across the back of her head, the skin breaking, a fine jet of blood
spraying across his face, hissing as it painted a line across the fallen
foliage on the ground. She fell forwards on to her knees, clutching the back of
her head, conscious, but seriously dazed, giving in to the fog of pain that
overtook her and falling prostrate to the forest floor.
Keller moved towards her still living body, looking down on her as she writhed.
He knew he needed to show her mercy now, despite her treachery; he needed to
show her mercy and end her suffering. He kneeled and rolled her over just
enough so she could see him. His arms felt like lead weights hanging at his
side, almost impossible to lift, but somehow he forced them to rise, his hands
closing around her throat, his fingers clamping around her jugular as his
thumbs, side by side, pressed deep into her trachea.
Her eyes bulged as the pressure inside her head grew, turning red as the blood
vessels began to rupture, a hideous cracking sound leaking from her lips as she
tried to draw a breath. Her hands wrapped around his wrists and pulled weakly
as she tried to save herself, her naked, bleeding feet sliding hopelessly on
the wet soil and dead leaves, digging sad little trenches as her heels slid
back and forth, slowing as the life eased from her as quietly as a child
drowning, unseen by anyone who could save her, who could pull her back to the
surface.
His hands remained clamped around her neck for a long time after she'd stopped
moving and her hands had fallen away from his wrists. He was frozen with the
fascination of how dead she already looked. He hadn't expected such a rapid
transition from life to death - it was the first dead body he'd ever seen.
Eventually the cold night rain drifting into his face brought him back to this
world. He hurriedly released his grip from her throat as if he'd had an
electric shock, as if he had no idea how his hands came to be there in the
first place. He shuffled away from the twisted body, aware that he was
breathing heavily and that the salt he could taste on his lips was his sweat as
it mixed with the rain that ran down his face. A calmness he'd never before
experienced began to wash over him. A sense of control surged through him,
clearing his mind, giving him focus and purpose.
Remembering what he needed to do next, he crawled around the body using only
the light from the stars and moon to search for her meagre clothing, his eyes
by now well adjusted. Having found the garments he stuffed them into his
pocket, then stood and began to walk steadily away from the patch of forest
that would forever be haunted by what it had witnessed. As he walked he thought
nothing of Karen Green. She had already faded to a distant memory, something
that had happened a long time ago.
His thoughts had shifted to the next woman he would be visiting, the woman he
knew was the real Sam.
5
Friday, seven thirty a.m. and Sean found himself driving towards the scene of
another tragedy the rest of the world would probably never even notice. The
closer he got to the scene, the more Louise Russell's attractive face etched
itself into his mind. But what would she look like now? Would she be mutilated
with ugly stab wounds or would the visible damage be restricted to a few
telltale signs of strangulation around her neck? Perhaps her scalp would be
matted in sticky red hair, like burnt jam, her skull caved in. He couldn't be
sure how she'd died yet, at least not until he saw her, but somehow he already
knew she would be naked and uncovered - that her killer would have made no
effort to conceal her body or destroy forensic evidence, other than possibly
dumping her in running water.
He rolled his car along the dirt road through Three Halfpenny Wood, looking for
the obvious signs of a police presence and soon spotted two uniform patrol cars
and Donnelly's unmarked Ford at the side of the road. Blue-and-white tape
cordoned off the road ahead and the forest edge close to the parked cars.
Ignoring the aches and tiredness that tried to distract him from what he had to
do, he sat on his bonnet and awkwardly pulled forensic protective covers over
his shoes before striding towards the two uniform officers who guarded the cars
and entrance to the scene, his thin mackintosh coat trailing behind him as he
approached. He tugged his warrant card free when he was close enough to the men
for them to be able to see it clearly. 'DI Corrigan,' he announced himself.
'Where's the body?'
'About fifty feet into the woods, sir,' one of the uniforms replied. 'Just head
straight in and you should find your DS easily enough.'
Sean peered into the woods, pausing for a couple of seconds before turning back
to the uniform officer. 'Thanks,' he said, and ducked under the tape. He began
to walk into the woods, always studying the ground ahead for evidence before
moving forward a few steps. It was difficult to work out which route the killer
had taken in and out of the wood as so many paths had been made by people and
animals trampling through the vegetation, but he was sure the killer would have
taken the most direct route in and out - he wasn't trying to cover his tracks.
It would probably be easier to track backwards after he'd seen the body. He
looked up and through the trees to a clearing where he could see Donnelly
casually chatting to two more uniform officers. A twig snapped under Sean's
foot and made all three look in his direction as if he was an unwanted intruder.
'Guv'nor,' Donnelly greeted him.
'Is it Louise Russell?' Sean asked bluntly.
'Who else could it be?'
'Have you seen the body?'
'I didn't get that close,' Donnelly told him. 'It was already confirmed that
she was dead, no need for me to trample the scene. But I was close enough to
see it's a young white woman with short brown hair, so unless you know
different, I'd say it's her.'
'If that's the description, then it's her.' Sean felt his spirits sink further,
any last hope it could have been a female vagrant dying of exposure or a young
suicide victim leaving him. 'Where is the body?'
'The other side of that raised ground, in a clearing. Do you want me to fill
you in on what I know so far?'
Sean shook his head. 'No, I'd rather see her myself first.'
'Fine,' Donnelly agreed. He wasn't insulted - he knew how Sean liked to work.
'Who found her?'
'A man taking his dog for an early morning walk. The dog did the finding.'
'Don't they always?'
'Any suspicions about the walker?'
'No. He's just an unlucky witness, but we've got him at the local nick anyway,
reluctantly handing over his clothes and giving samples, intimate and
non-intimate.'
'Good,' said Sean. 'Make sure we get hairs from the dog too.'
'You what?'
'I want hair samples from the dog,' Sean repeated.
'Why would we want that? If we find any hairs on the body, DNA will tell us
whether they're human or canine. If they're canine, we'll know where they came
from - the walker's dog.'
'And how do you know her killer doesn't have a dog? How do you know he didn't
bring his dog out here with him? How do you know he didn't keep her somewhere
where he also kept a dog or dogs?'
Donnelly sighed before answering. 'I don't.'
'Fine, then let's take the samples from the dog and get someone to do a cast of
his paws too, for comparison with any found close to the body.'
'If you really think it's necessary.'
'I do - so let's make sure it's done.' There was a pause, then Sean spoke
again. 'I need to see the body.'
'Forensics won't like it.'
'They'll survive. Besides, I want Dr Canning to examine the body in situ before
Roddis's team crawl all over the scene. I've already asked him to meet us here.
Are forensics on the way?'
'Aye,' said Donnelly, 'they should be here soon enough.'
'Keep them at bay until Dr Canning's been and gone, OK?'
'No problem.'
Sean looked at the moss-covered patch of raised ground formed by the
undergrowth spreading over an ancient fallen tree. He knew what lay on the far
side and he knew it was time to enter the other world that existed beyond the
world that most walked: a world of pain and suffering, of mindless violence and
the death of innocence. 'I need a few minutes alone with her,' he told
Donnelly, then set off towards the grassy knoll, moving slowly, making a show
of searching the ground in front of him, hoping the watching police would
assume he was being careful not to tread on any evidence. The truth was he
needed time to prepare himself for what he was about to see - for what he was
about to feel. He needed time to prepare himself for the person he was about to
become.
He reached the raised ground and circled it carefully, walking a wide arc,
unsure of what position the body would be in, not knowing whether he would
first see her head or her feet.
As he rounded the tiny hill his heart began to pound, not with fear, but with
excitement and anticipation at what he would find - at what bit of himself the
killer had left behind for him to discover, for him to experience, knowing the
more he shared with the man who had been here in the night, the closer he would
be to catching him.
When the shattered body came into view Sean looked away, giving his mind vital
seconds to prepare itself for what he had to see and what he had to do. He
looked up to the blue sky, his vivid imagination turning the daylight to
darkness, the sunshine to cold rain. He imagined the forest in the dead of
night, the freezing wind and the pale lifeless body lit by the moonlight that
bounced off the clouds. When he looked back at the body he saw his instincts
had been right - she was naked and uncovered, lying on her back with her arms
limp at her sides, her legs somewhat bent at the knees and slightly spread, as
if the killer had deliberately posed her in a sexual position. Sean doubted it
was caused by anything deliberate or premeditated, although he was sure she
would have been violated at some point, probably repeatedly. He pictured clouds
looming over the moon, turning the forest pitch-black as the killer kneeled
over her, his hands wrapped around her neck as her legs scraped in the mud.
Sean went in closer, almost close enough to touch the imaginary dark figure
hunched over his victim, faceless and vague. He drew even closer, moving as
slowly as a snake before it strikes, reaching out his hand, only inches away
from where the killer would have crouched, the woman's body still writhing
under him. Sean's fingers uncoiled and stretched towards where the killer's
face would have been, imagining himself staring into the killer's eyes, as if
by looking into those eyes he would understand why - why the man he hunted had
become a monster, why he felt compelled to do the things he'd done, things no
one else could understand - except Sean, perhaps? Understand, but not forgive.
A moment later the vision deserted him as quickly as it had arrived - night
turned back to day, rain and wind to spring sunshine and morning stillness.
Sean was left momentarily confused and disorientated; the extraordinary
vividness of the images from the night before had made them feel somehow more
real than the stark loneliness and surrealism of standing alone, inches away
from the quiet, still, pitiful body of another murder victim killed and dumped
without compassion or mercy.
Usually he was able to control his imagination, use it as precisely as a
surgeon would wield his scalpel, but today the images in his mind had been
almost beyond his control, taking on a life of their own, showing him all too
clearly the last moments of Louise Russell. He knew what it meant - that he was
already forming a strong connection with the man who had committed this crime.
A distant-sounding voice pulled him further back to here and now.
'You all right over there, guv'nor?' called Donnelly. 'I thought I heard you
say something.'
'No,' Sean answered. 'I'm fine.'
Dismissing Donnelly from his thoughts, he stared once more at the frail body
lying amongst the dead foliage, questions rushing into his mind, the answers
hard on their heels, preventing him from analysing and ordering them logically
and systematically as he knew he must. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply and
slowly, deliberately blocking the flow of information to allow his mind to
settle. When at last he felt the peace he needed to move forward, he opened his
eyes to see the yellow morning sunlight piercing the branches of the trees. It
was as if the light was split into hundreds of individual sun rays, the rain of
last night turning to mist as it warmed, magnifying the beauty of the rays as
steam swirled in the ghostly light beams. Everything around him appeared
magical, like a scene from some enchanted fairytale - everything except for the
broken body lying inches from where he stood.
The questions and answers were starting to come again, but this time he was
ready for them and able to control them. Sean moved as close as he dared to the
body, close enough to see all that he needed to see. He knelt and scanned her
from head to toe, over and over, the injuries telling their own tale: the split
lip that showed signs of healing, well-formed dark-brown bruises that must have
been inflicted days ago, in contrast with the fresh wounds to the side of her
head and her blood-soaked ear. New bruises to her right knee and right elbow.
Her right hand too had recently been injured, the skin of the knuckles scraped
away, the fingers swollen, possibly broken; the lack of bruising suggested
these too were fresh injuries, like the countless lacerations to her feet. Her
entire body was covered in bruises in a variety of shades, as if she'd been
repeatedly stabbed with a blunt object over a period of time.
Sean leaned closer, drawn by something unusual in the crook of her arm:
bruising and needle track marks. She'd either been forced to inject herself or
he had done it to her.
Glancing around to check that he wasn't being watched, Sean snapped on a single
rubber glove and carefully brushed the hair from her face. What he saw stopped
him dead as he tried to make sense of it. After a few seconds he began
searching in his inside jacket pockets, certain he'd remembered to keep a
photograph of Louise Russell close to hand. He found it in the last pocket he
searched, holding it in front of him so he could compare it with the face of
the woman lying on the ground. He strained to recall the Missing Persons
Report, searching his mind's image of it for the Marks & Scars section,
recalling that Louise Russell had had her appendix removed when she was a
teenager, leaving a four-inch scar on her lower right-side abdomen. His hand
moved down her body, floating inches above her skin until he reached the place
where the scar should have been, but the skin was pure and unblemished. 'Jesus
Christ,' he said quietly, struggling to comprehend what he had discovered.
His eyes searched her body for other signs this was not who she was supposed to
be, but he could find no more unique marks or scars visible on her front.
Carefully he gripped her right wrist and slowly rotated her arm, exposing the
underside and the cheap-looking colourful tattoo of a phoenix. Something about
it seemed childlike and unreal. There was no mention of Louise Russell having a
tattoo. This couldn't be her.
Sean stepped back, never taking his eyes away from the body. 'Louise Russell
wasn't your first, was she?' He spoke to the spirit of the killer whose
malignant presence had stained the ground he now stood on so indelibly it was
as if he was still here. 'This was your first. You took her and then you took
Louise Russell. But why? What are you thinking? What's making you do these
things?'
He stopped, stood in silence, letting his mind roam, exploring each avenue of
possibility before speaking again. 'They're the same. The two women are the
same - late twenties, early thirties, slim, short brown hair, same nose, face
shape ... This was no coincidence, was it?' Once more he paused, thought in
silence, letting the answers come to him, not forcing them. 'They reminded you
of someone ... No,' he reprimanded himself, 'more than that. When you saw them,
they became someone, someone you loved, someone who rejected you, who betrayed
you. They betrayed you, and so you take these women to be with her again, don't
you?' He was unaware that his hands were pushing the hair on the sides of his
head back continuously as he spoke, the effort of concentration subconsciously
manifesting itself. 'But why this?' His hands now both pointing towards the
body, palms upturned, standing, waiting for further revelations. 'Did she
reject you as well and you couldn't deal with that again, so you punished her?'
He stopped himself, paused, shook his head. 'But that doesn't explain this.' He
looked down at the body. 'This was an execution. You killed her as quickly and
painlessly as you thought you could. There's no rage here, no leaving the body
displayed to humiliate her. So tell me, you sick fucker, what made you go from
loving her to dumping her here like a dead animal?'
Realizing he was standing with his arms outstretched, he quickly tucked them
into his coat pockets to stop any more involuntary gestures. Then he stood
motionless, processing the information, dissecting it with diamond-sharp
clarity, drawing conclusions he would never be able to explain to the rest of
his team, let alone an outsider. There was only one other person who would
understand what he was thinking - the man who had tortured and strangled the
life out of the pretty young woman now lying amongst the fallen leaves and
crawling insects.
Sean suddenly turned on his heels and strode towards Donnelly, speaking as he
closed the distance between them. 'It's not her,' he announced.
Stunned, Donnelly opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak Sean cut
in:
'The victim - it's not Louise Russell.'
'It fucking looks like her to me, guv.'
'It's not her,' Sean repeated. 'Similar in every way, but it's not her. Louise
Russell had her appendix removed when she was a teenager. This woman has no
post-op scarring and she has a tattoo on her arm. Louise Russell does not. This
is not her.'
The weight of what Sean was telling him took Donnelly a few seconds to
translate. 'Oh fuck,' he finally declared.
'Oh fuck indeed,' Sean agreed.
'So if she's not Louise Russell, then who the hell is she?'
'I have absolutely no idea,' Sean answered, an admission that spurred him to
action. 'OK. I want you to get hold of Sally and tell her to check all the
recent missing persons reports for south-east London - but only for women of
similar description to Louise Russell. She won't find many, but let's hope
there's at least one. When the Lab Team get here, have them photograph the
tattoo on the underside of her right forearm - there's something off there,
something odd about it. Get a copy of the photo and give it to someone you
trust to research it - local tattoo shops, Internet, etc. Someone may remember
doing it for her.'
'I'll give it to Zukov. He likes a little project,' grinned Donnelly.
'Fine. Meantime, you stay here and liaise with forensics when they arrive. Tell
them we need the scene and everything from it processed as a matter of the
utmost urgency. They'll moan like drains that the anti-terrorist boys have got
them buried under an avalanche of work, but do it anyway. Make sure they know
we still have an outstanding missing person who will be turning up in some
other wood making them even more work if they don't get this rushed through.'
'No problem,' Donnelly assured him. 'But there's one thing you may have
overlooked, boss.'
'Such as?'
'We can't be sure Louise Russell's disappearance and this woman's death are
connected.'
Sean bit back the caustic reply, reminded himself others around him needed more
time, more tangible evidence to draw the same conclusions he already had. 'No
make-up, no painted nails or dyed hair. No track-marks in her arms or legs - no
body piercings. This was no prostitute dragged off the street and murdered.'
'Agreed,' Donnelly answered, 'but that doesn't mean she was killed by the guy
that took Louise Russell.'
'Same age, same physical build, hair, face. There'll be a MISPER report
somewhere that'll tell us who she is and with it the evidence to all but
confirm they were taken by the same man.'
'If you say so,' Donnelly sighed.
'I'm off back to the office to put Featherstone in the picture. Oh, and one
last thing ...'
'Aye?'
'For God's sake cover the poor cow up with something, will you - she's suffered
enough already. It'll help preserve evidence if it rains too.'
Donnelly nodded in agreement as he watched Sean picking his way through the
fallen branches and tree stumps, heading for the road and his car, just as the
killer had the night before.
Thomas Keller slowly descended the stone stairs to the cellar, the low morning
light casting a long shadow that moved across the floor like an evil spirit. He
listened for sounds of movement from below without losing concentration on
balancing the tray of breakfast items, his mood calm, but somewhat melancholy.
As he stepped into the room he placed the tray on the same little makeshift
table behind the old screen and pulled the light cord, managing a forced
half-smile in Louise Russell's direction. 'I have to go to work soon,' he told
her, 'but I thought you might like to get cleaned up a bit and have some
breakfast.' She didn't respond. He was pleased to see she was wearing the
clothes he had given her, his smile broadening as he admired the well-dressed
woman locked in her cage.
'You look lovely,' he told her. 'Did you use the moisturizer and perfume I gave
you? I can't smell them.' Still she didn't respond. 'Don't feel like talking,
eh? Never mind. I understand. You're upset about ...' he managed to stop
himself before saying the name. 'You're upset about the other woman that used
to be here. Well, don't be. She's gone now. She can't make any more trouble for
us. We won't have to listen to her lies.'
Louise broke her silence. 'What happened to her?'
'I told you, we don't have to worry about her any more,' he answered, agitation
creeping into his previously calm persona. 'So please, let's not mention her
again ... OK?'
'What did you do to her?' Louise persisted, contempt and anger overtaking her
fear and caution.
'We don't talk about her,' Keller erupted, his face contorted with rage. 'We
don't fucking talk about her ever again. Never again. Do you understand?'
Louise rocked back in her cell, her temporary courage deserting her, her hands
pushed out in front of her as if to fend him off. 'OK. Sorry. I won't mention
her. I promise.'
'Good,' he said, calmer now. He pulled the key and the stun-gun from separate
pockets, looking at them guiltily. 'I'm sorry about this,' he told her, 'but I
don't know how much they poisoned you. There may still be some inside of you,
making you think things about me that aren't true. We need to be careful.' He
unlocked the cage door and pulled it gently, allowing it to swing open under
its own weight, stepping back to give her space. She began to crawl towards the
door, but he stopped her midway: 'Wait, don't forget the moisturizer and
perfume. I want you to use them today. But make sure you take all your clothes
off first. I want you to wash properly before you use them.'
Louise crawled back and gathered the items, clutching them to her chest as if
they were something she treasured, despite her revulsion.
As she left her cage she registered the daylight from above pouring down the
stairs and knew the door was open. There was nothing she could do though, not
with him watching her every move, stun-gun at the ready. She walked past him,
using her peripheral vision to watch him, waiting for him to lower his guard
and give her a chance, but he stayed alert and the opportunity never came.
She moved behind the screen and began to undress, carefully hanging her clothes
over the screen, looking at him sheepishly to show him her embarrassment at
being watched. 'Please, excuse me.'
Keller took the hint. 'You want some privacy, of course.' He moved deeper into
the cellar, resigning himself to watching her through the thin material of the
screen as she removed the last of her clothes and began to wash, wiping the
cloth across her naked body. But he felt no stirring today, no delicious
anticipation of when they would be together. The events of the previous night
seemed to have dulled his senses and lessened his feelings towards the woman he
watched in silhouette through the fabric. Doubts began to seep into his mind as
to whether she was the true one after all, but he managed to chase them away,
for now.
She had begun to dry herself, hurriedly rubbing the coarse towel over her skin.
'Don't forget the cream and perfume,' he told her, watching the silhouette
freeze for a few seconds before reaching for the moisturizer, her hands almost
frantically rubbing it into her shoulders. 'Slow down,' he demanded. 'Take your
time. I want you to put it everywhere. It only works if you put it everywhere.'
Again she froze for a few seconds, then carried on massaging the cream into her
skin. A satisfied sigh escaped his lips. 'That's better,' he said
encouragingly. 'Do it just like that.'
He watched for minutes as she performed for him, but still his excitement
failed to reach its previous levels, leaving him feeling disappointed and
unfulfilled. 'Now the perfume,' he insisted, watching as her shadow pointed the
small bottle towards the base of her throat and pressed twice, the tiny cloud
of man-made scent casting its own silhouette as it floated through the air
behind the screen.
When she'd finished dressing she walked from behind the screen and headed
obediently back towards her cage, the scent of the cream and perfume wafting
under his nose as she passed him, its combination intoxicating, but still the
excitement he expected to feel was not there. He looked away from her.
Seeing him turn his head as if ashamed, Louise saw an opportunity to reach out
him, to try to form some kind of bond. She'd vowed to learn from Karen Green's
mistakes. Perhaps if Karen had managed to touch him, he wouldn't have treated
her like an anonymous pawn in his game of fantasy. If she'd only tried stepping
from the shadows of whoever Sam was to him, it might have made it more
difficult for him to force himself on her and finally, when he tired of her, to
dispose of her like an unwanted pet.
By getting closer to him, Louise hoped she could confuse him, make him doubt
himself and what he was doing. If she had to, she would take him inside of her,
pretend she wanted him, but all the time she would be looking, waiting for the
opportunity to hurt him - to hurt him like she'd never hurt anybody in her life.
'Are you all right?'
The gentle, caring question seemed to catch him off-balance. 'Sorry,' he said,
before realizing he had heard her question after all. 'Yes, sorry, yes I'm
fine. I'm just a little tired, that's all. I've been working very hard lately
... er, things have been a little crazy at work, but I'm fine. Thank you.'
'What do you do?' she asked, aware of his awkwardness, determined to keep him
talking.
'You know what I do,' he said. 'You've seen me.'
'You mean you're a real postman? That's a good job. You must be very
responsible to have a job like that.' She knew her speech was stuttering and
unnaturally bright, but she had to search for the chink in his armour of
madness.
'It's OK,' he answered suspiciously, his eyes back on her now, moving up and
down her body as if the way she moved would betray whatever treacherous ideas
she might be hatching. 'People leave me alone,' he lied, 'and I can pretty much
do as I like, so long as I get the job done.'
'That's good.' Without meaning to, she found herself talking to him as she
would a child. 'It must be nice to be left alone.'
'What do you mean?'
'Nothing. Just it must be nice to be able to do what you want to do, when you
want to.'
'Why?' he asked. 'Do you resent being here? Don't you want to be here?'
'No, no,' she hurried to assure him, realizing she was losing whatever ground
she'd made. 'I want to be here with you. I want to understand.'
'Maybe you'll never understand.' He was glaring at her, his voice cold. 'Maybe
they poisoned your mind too much for you to ever be able to understand.'
Louise felt herself being dragged towards the edge of the cliff. 'No, you can
make me understand, you can take the poison away. I know you can. I'm Sam,
remember?'
He remained silent, considering her, waiting for his instincts to tell him how
to react. He felt nothing.
'You need to go back inside,' he told her. 'It's not safe for you yet. The lies
are still in your head.'
'Why can't I come with you?' she almost pleaded, desperate to escape to the
daylight above and the unlimited possibilities of salvation she dreamed it
held. 'You don't need to leave me down here any longer.'
'I told you,' he insisted, 'it's not safe for you yet. You need to go back
inside now.' He raised the stun-gun a few inches to encourage her. Tears began
to roll down her cheeks as she stooped back inside the desolate cage, the door
closing quickly behind her, the lock snapping shut, condemning her to more
hours alone in the gloom without hope.
He got to the foot of the stairs and then turned back, came right up to the
side of her cage. 'I almost forgot ...' He was smiling again. 'I have something
for you, something that will bring us even closer together.' He pulled the
sleeve of his right arm up over his bare forearm, slowly rolling it back on
itself to expose a tattoo on the underside of his arm, its bright colours vivid
against his pale, lifeless skin: the reds, blues and greens of a phoenix rising
from the gold of the fire. It was clumsy illustration, like something a child
would choose at a fairground. 'This is us,' he told her, 'this is our love,
rising from the flames. They all tried to stop it from happening, but you can't
stop what is meant to be.'
He bared his small ugly teeth as he smiled at her, his eyes shining brightly as
he nervously waited for her reaction. She forced herself to smile through her
fear and disgust.
'Here,' he said, reaching into the pocket of his tracksuit top, 'I have
something for you, something to show everybody that we were meant to be
together.' Carefully he pulled out a flimsy, shiny-backed piece of paper. He
smiled as he looked at the picture she couldn't yet see, pinched between his
thumb and index finger, eventually twisting his wrist to show her the image of
the phoenix, exactly the same as his tattoo in every way.
Suddenly his hand shot out and opened the hatch to the cage. 'Put your arm
through,' he said, still smiling.
'Why?' she asked, memories of the torture he'd inflicted on Karen Green too
fresh in her mind.
'Don't be scared,' he laughed, 'it's not a real tattoo like mine. You can get a
real one later, when the poison's gone - this one's just a transfer. Don't you
remember? It's the same one we had when we were kids. It was our secret. Only
we knew about them. You put mine on my arm and I did yours. It was our secret
sign.'
'Yes,' she lied. 'It was a long time ago, but I remember.'
'Good,' he said, his eyes bright with joy. 'Now put your arm through the hatch.'
She resisted the temptation to close her eyes as she eased her arm through the
cage opening, his hand closing around her wrist, gently pulling her forearm
towards him. He licked the underside of the transfer, but his swollen red
tongue lacked saliva and he had to run it over the transfer several times
before it was moist enough to apply. It took every ounce of strength Louise had
not to recoil from his vileness, her nausea reaching new levels as he pressed
the wet transfer into her forearm, his hand clamped over the top of it, his
saliva glistening on her skin.
'You have to keep still for a while,' he explained, 'or it won't work
properly.' He held her for minutes that felt like hours before peeling away the
transfer underside, leaving behind the ugly image of something that should have
been beautiful. As he released her arm she couldn't help but pull it back
inside her cage too quickly, turning his smile to a frown of concern. 'What's
the matter?' he asked. 'Don't you like it?'
'Of course,' she lied, 'it's beautiful.' Her blinking eyelashes flicked tears
across her face.
Keller had learned to trust what he saw, not what people said. The smile did
not return to his face. He stood to his full height and filled his lungs with
air pulled through his nose and began to walk to the staircase, tugging the
light cord and returning the gloom. At the foot of the stairs he turned to her
once more.
'Everything can be replaced, Sam.' His voice was flat, devoid of emotion. 'They
taught me that, in the home they took me to, they taught me that. Everything
can be replaced. Even you, Sam. Even you.'
Sean strode across the incident room, speaking to everyone he passed without
stopping, asking quick-fire questions, making sure they knew he was aware of
the tasks they'd been assigned and that he needed results fast. They weren't
used to trying to save a life yet to be lost and Sean was concerned they would
struggle to adapt from the pace of a normal murder investigation, where the
victim was beyond saving if not beyond redemption.
Through the Perspex windows of his office he could see Sally talking to
Detective Superintendent Featherstone. He went in and joined them.
'Sally's been giving me the good news.' Featherstone's voice was heavy with
sarcasm. 'Are you one hundred per cent sure about this, Sean?'
'Yes,' Sean answered bluntly. 'The woman I saw this morning is not Louise
Russell. Sally, what you got?'
'Karen Green,' Sally began. 'Reported missing yesterday by her brother, Terry
Green. This is a photograph of her.' She handed Sean a picture taken with a
flash in some bar, Karen's smile beaming at the unseen lens. 'She's twenty-six
years old, five foot six approximately, shortish brown hair, slim--'
Sean cut in before she could finish. 'That's her,' he said. 'Karen Green's the
woman I saw this morning. OK, what do we know about her?' He looked to Sally
for answers.
'Not much. All we have so far is a basic non-vulnerable MISPER report. It's not
exactly overflowing with information. We know she lived and worked in Bromley,
and that she lived alone but had lots of friends, two sisters and three
brothers including Terry who reported her missing.'
'Have they been spoken to yet?' Sean asked.
'No,' Sally told him. 'Like I said, she was only reported missing yesterday.'
'But when did she actually go missing? When was she last seen?'
Sally scanned the report. 'According to Terry, he hasn't heard from her since
Wednesday.'
'This report's not going to tell us anything useful. Get this Terry Green to
meet us at Karen's place. I need to speak to him myself and I need to have a
look around before forensics pile in.'
'I'll get it sorted now.' Sally was already on her way out of the room.
'What about going back to the media?' Featherstone asked. 'They'll make a
connection sooner or later.'
Sean nodded. 'They may be a lot of things, but they're not stupid. I suggest we
tell them upfront what's going on, but hold back enough details so we can
dismiss any nutters phoning in, claiming to be the killer. Christ,' he
exclaimed, 'once the media find out we have one dead and another living on
borrowed time, they'll go fucking mental. They'll be all over this every second
of the day.'
'I can't do anything about that,' sighed Featherstone, 'but I can probably keep
them off your back, keep your name in the background as much as possible.'
'It would be appreciated.'
'But are you sure bringing the media in won't panic him? We don't want to be
accused of pushing him into doing what we both know he's going to do anyway.'
'It won't,' Sean assured him. 'He's working to his own timeline and nothing's
going to interfere or change that.'
'How can you be so sure?'
'He didn't just snatch Louise Russell off the street and I'm betting he didn't
just snatch Karen Green either. That means he has a plan in mind for the women
he takes, even if he doesn't consciously know it himself. He won't let a media
appeal interfere with that. Keeping them alive as long as he does is too
important to him. It's everything. If Karen Green's timeline is anything to go
by, and I believe it is, we have about three days to find Louise Russell before
she ends up the same way.'
Sally appeared at the door, already pulling her coat on. 'Terry Green will meet
us outside Karen's house as soon we can get there.'
Sean stood and began to load his pocket with items snatched from his desk.
'One moment, Sean,' Featherstone stopped him. 'I need a quick word.' He looked
at Sally. 'In private.'
'I'll meet you at the car,' Sean told her. She shrugged and left. 'What is it?'
he asked.
'Well,' Featherstone began, 'first off, let me just tell you the powers that be
are very happy that you're the one heading up this investigation.'
'But ...?'
'But they want you to work with someone on this one, especially now a body has
turned up that's not the woman we were looking for.'
'They already know about that?'
Featherstone didn't answer his question. 'They want you to work with someone
from outside the force - a criminal psychologist, to be exact.'
'Please tell me you're joking.'
'I'm afraid not. Her name's Anna Ravenni-Ceron. She's very well qualified.'
'Anna Ravenni-who?' said Sean. 'Look, boss, I really don't have time to babysit
some civi-scientist so she can make a name for herself and get her face on the
telly.'
'I'm sorry, Sean, but the decision's been made - it's out of my hands. I know
it's bullshit, but you'll just have to put up with it.' He lowered his voice
conspiratorially: 'Listen, my advice - give her the mushroom treatment: keep
her in the dark and feed her shit as much as you can. Just don't get caught
doing it, eh?' He winked and then added cheerily, 'I'll send her over in the
next day or so.'
'Fine,' Sean reluctantly agreed, knowing he had no choice. 'But if she gets in
my way or interferes with this investigation, I'll personally throw her out on
her ear.'
'Have you considered that she might actually be able to help you?' Featherstone
asked.
'No,' Sean told him bluntly. 'That's not something I have considered and it's
probably not something I will consider. All she needs to do is keep out of my
way.'
Louise Russell lay on the filthy mattress inside her cage, the dirty light bulb
hanging from the ceiling painting everything in the cellar a miserable yellow.
She'd felt so alone since he took Karen away; alone and afraid. A terrible
anxiety and sense of panic had gripped her, sending her heart racing and making
her stomach tighten painfully. She sensed she was on the verge of totally
losing control and descending into madness if she didn't find some way of
combating the dread that was engulfing her. So she tried to fill her head with
thoughts of home, her comfortable house, the things inside it that suddenly
meant so much to her - her pictures, her clothes, her own bathroom and real
toilet, warmth and safety. Her mind drifted to her husband, strong and quiet,
kind and reliable, moral and loyal, the sort of man she'd always planned on
settling down with, the sort of man she wanted to have children with - a happy
little suburban family.
All too soon other thoughts forced their way into her consciousness. What had
he done to Karen? She was sure he hadn't simply released her. He couldn't risk
letting her walk away to tell the world what he had done. Maybe he'd just moved
her to another place, to keep them apart? She hoped so, but somehow she doubted
it.
Dear God, she thought, why had he taken her, why was she the one lying on a
filthy mattress in a wire cage? What had drawn this beast to her? She hadn't
done anything wrong, she hadn't hurt anyone, she had no enemies, so why her?
And why Karen? Images of Karen being abused and violated flashed behind her
eyes, his words as he left her ringing inside her head - Everything can be
replaced. Even you, Sam. Even you. The inevitability of what was to come
consumed and terrified her, the rising sense of panic once again overwhelming
her, as if the cage had already become her coffin, the worms and maggots
writhing over her skin, spiders crawling across her slowly decaying body. She
could feel them and knew she had to escape her crypt.
She launched herself at the cage door, bouncing off it to the floor, ignoring
the pain in her shoulder and launching herself again with the same result,
tears of pain mixing with tears of frustration and abject terror, as if she
only now realized the full extent of her predicament. Again she rammed the door
with her shoulder, and again, until finally she could stand the pain no more,
falling to the floor sobbing, scratching and digging at the unyielding concrete
like a trapped dog trying to escape, her fingernails splintering and bleeding,
the futility of her actions increasingly obvious until she finally rocked back
on her haunches, hands fallen at her side, her head lolled backwards, staring
at the heavens she imagined somewhere above the cold cellar's ceiling. 'God,'
she pleaded. 'Please help me. Dear Jesus, please help, I'm begging you, please
help me.' Her quiet prayers suddenly turned to desperate screams. 'Jesus Christ
help me. Please, anybody help me, please, for God's sake somebody please help
me. Somebody!'
But her prayers, both whispered and screamed, were met with silence. She
crawled to her mattress, curled into a tight ball and waited, waited for the
sound of the heavy metal lock being knocked against the steel door and then the
footsteps, the soft footsteps as he descended towards her.
Mid-morning Friday and Sean and Sally waited impatiently outside Karen Green's
house for her brother Terry to show. Sally sensed Sean's bad mood. 'Are you all
right?' she asked. 'Something seems to be bothering you.'
'I'm fine,' he dismissed her concern. 'I could just do without other people
sticking their noses into my business.'
Sally intended to pry further, but Sean was saved by Terry Green's car pulling
on to the driveway. He climbed out quickly and almost tripped as he staggered
towards them, his face riddled with anxiety.
'Sorry I'm late,' he panted breathlessly.
'Don't worry about it,' Sally replied, 'and thanks for coming.'
'When you said it was about Karen I came straight away. Has something happened
to her? Have you found her? Is she all right?'
Sean flashed his warrant card. 'DI Corrigan. Are you Terry Green?' His mood and
the urgency of the situation made him abrupt.
'Yes.'
'I need to establish when you or anyone else last saw Karen and I need to do it
quickly.'
'Why? What's happening?'
Seeing that Green was becoming flustered, Sally pushed her own feelings of
anxiety to one side and stepped between him and Sean, protecting him from an
onslaught of blunt questions.
'I'm Sally, we spoke on the phone, remember?'
'Of course. You asked me to meet you here. You said it was about Karen.'
'It is,' she told him, 'and if there was any other way of doing this, believe
me we would have, but the urgency of the situation meant we had to meet you
here and we have to ask you some questions straight away.'
'But what about Karen?' Green asked, concerned.
'I have to be honest with you, Terry. I have to tell you something that's not
going to be easy to hear, but it's only fair you hear it now.' She waited for
signs that Green had braced himself for the worst. When she was sure his lungs
could inhale no more air she rested a hand on his shoulder and continued. 'We
found the body of a young woman this morning and she matches the description of
your sister.' His lungs deflated instantly and he seemed to sway, his eyes
closing for a second before slowly flickering open. She knew his body had dealt
with the blow well, but his mind had gone into temporary shock. Resting her
other hand on his opposite shoulder, ready to steady him if his swaying
threatened to topple him, Sally continued: 'She matches the description of your
sister, but we can't be sure it's her until she's formally identified.'
'When will that be?' Green managed to ask.
'A little later,' Sally told him, 'as soon as we can get it organized. But
right now we need to know when was the last time anyone saw Karen.'
'I'm not sure,' he admitted. 'It was probably me, what, last Wednesday, in the
evening sometime, the night before she was due to fly to Australia. I was
picking up a set of keys for her house and taking care of some other stuff I
told her I'd do while she was away.'
'Australia?' Sean queried.
'She was going travelling, looking for something she said she couldn't find
here.'
'Was she going with anyone?' Sean asked, excited by the prospect of identifying
a now missing travel companion, especially if that companion was a new man in
her life.
'No,' Green ended the possible line of inquiry. 'She wanted to go alone, which
is pretty typical of her. She has a spirit of adventure, you know. She makes
friends easily. She had no fear of going by herself.'
Sean had no interest in her personality at this moment. His priority was
gathering hard facts he could use to find Louise Russell. 'So as far as you're
concerned she's been missing for nine days?'
'I think so, yes.'
'And you didn't report her missing until yesterday because you thought she was
travelling around Australia, yes?'
Green nodded, still looking dazed.
'So what happened? You tried to call her and couldn't get an answer? Then you
called around her friends and they all told you the same thing - nobody had
heard from her.'
'Yes,' Green answered, struggling to gather his thoughts. 'So I phoned the
airline she was flying with and they said she never boarded the flight. That
was when I knew for certain something was wrong, so I reported her missing.'
Sally could see Green needed a softer approach. 'You did the right thing, Mr
Green. Checking with the airline was a smart move,' she reassured him, flashing
a look at Sean that warned him to ease off, at least for a while. 'You look as
if you could use a cup of tea, so how about I nip across to that cafe over the
road and get us a drink, then we can get started with the questions?'
'Yeah. Sure.'
'Did you bring keys for the house?' Sean asked. 'I need to take a look inside.'
'Of course,' said Green, fishing in his pocket and handing over two keys.
'Thank you.' Sean examined the keys that he could see fitted quality locks - so
Karen Green hadn't been flippant about her home security. 'Have you been
inside, since you reported her missing?'
'I checked it out this morning - it was as quick as I could get here. As soon
as I found her backpack and travel documents I told the same police I'd first
reported it to. That was when they said you'd be taking over the investigation.
I should have checked the house as soon as I thought something was wrong -
shouldn't I?'
'It wouldn't have made any difference,' Sean told him. 'You did everything you
could. You wait here. I'm just going to take a look around.'
Turning his back on Green, he walked towards the front door, already struck by
the similarities between Louise Russell's house and this one - small, modern
townhouses in quiet, anonymous streets, the dog-leg design of the garage and
house frontage meaning the front door could not be seen until you were very
close. Sean imagined the faceless killer approaching the property, feeling safe
and comfortable with it, the type of house he would stick to now, never
changing his approach, never changing his method even though it clearly marked
his crimes.
Sean moved around the outside of the building, checking the windows at the
front, sides and back for signs of forced entry or disturbance without
expecting to find anything. He couldn't imagine the killer searching for a weak
entry point, it just didn't feel right - too clumsy and random, too likely to
give himself away, to be heard or seen by a nosy neighbour. He moved back to
the front of the house and stood by the front door with its opaque glass arches
in the higher section. The killer would have been able to see Karen Green
approaching, would have been able to hear her, sense her. This was his way into
the house, he was sure of it. He walked in straight through the open front
door. But had he waited outside for the random opportunity of the door being
opened for some reason, or had he caused the door to be opened?
Sean thought about the entrances to this and Louise Russell's house, the
privacy they provided, and decided it would have been possible for the killer
to hide in the alcove, concealed from both the road and anyone inside casually
looking out. But if they were looking hard, searching for the source of an
unfamiliar or suspicious noise, he could have been seen. No, Sean told himself.
Too risky. It didn't fit the way this one operated. This one hit fast and hard,
sticking to a plan, silent and unobserved, his escape and the transfer of his
victims from car to car seamless and unseen. No, this one strode up the drive
and rang the doorbell almost without hesitation, pausing only for a second to
run through the plan in his mind one last time.
But that didn't explain why both women had opened the door to this monster.
Were they so secure in their own homes they didn't think to check who was on
the other side of the door? Or had he appeared to be something he was not -
something they saw every day that they trusted, that they would never consider
a threat? Artifice, Sean decided. The bastard used artifice to get the door
open. But if he'd gone to the lengths of planning Sean was increasingly sure he
had, then he wouldn't simply knock on the door and tell them he was from the
gas board, he wouldn't risk that.
Sean thought for a second, not wanting to chase the answer too hard, afraid if
he tightened his grip too quickly the truth of what had happened would ooze
between his fingers and be lost. This one wore a uniform, a uniform people
trusted: a council worker, a meter reader, a postman or maybe even a police
uniform. No, Sean told himself, not a police uniform, people remember the
presence of a cop. The man he was looking for would have chosen something
bland, a profession people took for granted.
He realized he'd been standing only inches from the front door staring into the
warped glass arches for an unnatural length of time. The voice of Terry Green
from somewhere behind him further dragged him back to the world of the living
and sane. 'Is everything all right?' Green asked. 'Are you having trouble with
the keys?'
'No,' Sean called over his shoulder without turning to face him, looking down
at the unused keys in his hand and lifting them to the first lock. 'I'll be
back in a few minutes. Wait here for DS Jones.'
Unlocking the door as swiftly as he could, he stepped inside, braced for an
onrush of senses and images of both the victim and violator, but little came.
He eased the door shut and took a deep breath, relieved to be alone, away from
the confused, concerned gaze of Terry Green. He stood with his back to the door
looking around the hallway, waiting for his projected imagination to be
kick-started by some sight or smell, but still little happened. The scene was
old now, cold and lifeless. No one had been inside the house for the last nine
days. How quickly a home becomes a shell, deprived of the ebb and flow of
people that keeps it alive. Still he needed to glean from it what he could,
find some trace of what had happened, some imprint of the man who came through
the front door nine days ago and shattered the life of Karen Green and everyone
who cared about her.
He walked deeper into the house, keeping close to the walls, staring hard at
the hallway carpet, though he doubted there would be much to see. This one
didn't spill blood at the scene. The best they could hope for was that the
forensic team would find a shoe imprint in the carpet or more traces of
chloroform. He took a moment or two to look around the hallway, simply and
tastefully decorated, the walls adorned with framed colourful prints and
multiple photographs of the victim with people he assumed were her friends and
family, trapped behind the glass of cheap clip-frames. The door leading into
the lounge was already open as he stepped across the threshold. It was
decorated in the same simplistic way: prints and photographs on walls, although
fewer than in the hallway, a comfortable set of modern chairs with a sofa, a
decent television with accompanying electronic adornments, thick cotton blinds
instead of curtains. So far the house was providing no real sense of its owner.
Disappointed, he moved on to the kitchen, the heart of any home, even one
belonging to a person who lived alone.
On re-entering the hallway he found the kitchen door ajar. He paused for a
second. Where had she been when the killer came calling - in the kitchen? No.
The door would have been fully open if she'd come from there. The lounge then?
Again no - it was pristine, no signs of recent use, no indentation on the
chairs or sofa, no TV or music playing. He thought for a moment. She was due to
fly to Australia the morning she was taken, so she would have been too excited
to sit and watch TV, there'd have been last-minute packing to do and
arrangements to take care of. So she'd have been upstairs when he called, Sean
was sure of it. For a brief moment he felt the panic that had gripped the
killer when she took longer to answer the door than he'd anticipated, finishing
whatever task she was in the middle of before making her way downstairs. But
his connection with the madman faded as quickly as it came.
His thoughts and senses returned to the kitchen he found himself standing in,
but it looked and felt like a show kitchen, everything scrubbed clean and put
away, its sterile surfaces and unused cooker revealing nothing about her. 'I'm
wasting my time here,' he told himself, aware he was speaking out loud. 'Time I
haven't got.'
He left the kitchen and headed upstairs, unconcerned about stepping on any
unseen forensic evidence, utterly convinced that the killer had never been near
the stairs. At the top of the stairway he was confronted by three doors, two
partially open and one fully so. He went through the fully open door first and
found exactly what he had expected - a brand-new, fully loaded backpack lying
on the stripped double bed next to the last few items waiting to be packed
away. Alongside the backpack was a larger than normal travel wallet that drew
him to it. He flicked it open with one finger and studied the contents: a
passport, Australian dollars, travellers' cheques and insurance documents.
She'd been well prepared and organized, clearly she'd lived an orderly life, as
did Louise Russell. Was that important to the man who took them? Did his
knowledge of them go beyond where they lived, encompassing how they lived - and
if so, how did he come by this information? What was his window into their
lives?
Another question hit him. Why hadn't her brother checked inside and found what
he had found? He considered Terry Green for a while, trying to remember what he
had felt when he'd first seen him, whether he'd missed something. Could it be
that Terry had killed his own sister and then taken Louise Russell in some
twisted attempt to replace her, to avoid feelings of guilt and remorse, loss
and sorrow? The replacement angle felt right, but everything else felt wrong.
He moved slowly around the bedroom, but again could get no sense of her, no
trace of her perfume or shampoo, her body or hand cream. Her house was a desert
to him. He checked the other bedroom as a matter of course and found she'd been
using it mainly as a storage room; it was full of neatly piled cardboard boxes
that had once contained the items now spread around the house, although there
was an unmade single bed pushed into the corner for the use of overnight guests
who didn't share her bed.
Sean slipped from the bedroom and quietly crossed the hallway to the bathroom,
beginning to feel more like an intruder than a cop. The bathroom was little
different from the rest of the house, sterile and unyielding, everything
cleaned and tidied away before she left for her adventure of a lifetime. He
opened the large mirrored door to her oversized bathroom cabinet, looking for
some hint of her life before the madness came, and was confronted by a
multitude of bottles and jars, lotions and potions that only women would ever
consider covering themselves in. Most of them had been at least partially used,
seals broken and bottles half-emptied of their strange-coloured liquids. He
examined them closely, absorbing their pleasant clinical fragrances, moving
things around so he could see deeper into the cabinet and her life now past.
She clearly cared for herself, but there was nothing exotic here and most of
the brands were familiar to him as they would be to almost anybody: Nivea,
Clarins, Radox, Chanel and dozens more, all left behind because they'd been
used - people liked to take unopened toiletries when they headed off on a long
journey and she'd clearly been no different.
Feeling as if he was being suffocated by the soulless house, Sean hurried back
downstairs, needing to get out as fast as he could. He was on the verge of
flinging open the front door when he remembered that Terry Green and Sally
would be waiting on the other side for him, so he paused to compose himself,
only emerging when he was sure he appeared calm.
On stepping out, he immediately noticed an absence on the driveway. 'Her car?'
he asked as he approached Sally and Terry. 'She had a car, right, so where is
it?'
'It's in storage,' Green answered.
'How so?'
'She had no room in the garage for it, and she thought it would be safer in
storage than left on the drive.'
'Storage where?' The urgency in his voice was tangible. 'Did she tell you what
storage firm she used?'
Green thought for a moment. 'It was over in Beckenham, I know that. Had one of
those obvious names, like We-Store-4-U.'
Sally was already typing the details into her iPhone. They all waited in
silence for a couple of minutes until Sally spoke.
'Yep, here they are - We-Store-4-U, Beckenham.' She enlarged the telephone
number and tapped it, moving the phone to her ear, walking away from Sean and
Green while she made her inquiry. Sean's concentration was so firmly fixed on
Sally he all but forgot Green was there, watching as she paced the driveway
talking into her phone and waiting. Finally he heard her say 'Thank you' before
hanging up. She stepped back towards them, shaking her head. 'The car was
booked in for storage, but it never turned up. They tried calling her, but got
no answer.'
'Of course they didn't. Son-of-a-bitch took her car just like he--' Sean
stopped himself from mentioning Louise Russell in Green's presence.
'Just like what?' Green asked.
'Nothing,' Sean lied. 'I need you to tell me about her car - make, model,
colour, registration if you know it.'
'A Toyota, I think,' Green answered, thrown into confusion by Sean's questions.
'I don't know the number plate.'
'Don't worry about it,' Sally intervened. 'The storage people gave me the
details - a red Nissan Micra, index Yankee-Yankee-fifty-nine-Oscar-Victor-Papa.'
'Good,' Sean said. 'Get it circulated.'
Sally immediately began typing numbers into her phone.
'And when you've done that, take Mr Green's statement - everything he can tell
us about Karen's last-known movements and her intended trip to Australia, names
of recent boyfriends, etc, etc.'
Sally nodded as she waited for her call to be answered. 'Anything else?' she
asked, phone pressed to her ear.
'Plenty,' said Sean grimly, 'but let me worry about that. You take care of the
car and statement - I need to get back to the office, set the ball rolling.'
Sean had no sooner started the engine than his phone rang. He took the call
while pulling away from the kerb, well practised at one-handed driving.
'Inspector Corrigan? This is Dr Canning.'
'Doctor. D'you have something for me?' Sean asked.
'I thought I ought to let you know the body from the woods has been moved to
the mortuary at Guy's where I plan to carry out the post-mortem later this
afternoon, if you'd care to join me.'
'I'll be there,' he confirmed, images of the terrible wounds the pathologist
would be inflicting on Karen Green's body invading his mind.
Trying to keep one eye on the road, Sean scrolled through his phone for
Donnelly's number, tapping it to call and waiting a few seconds before it was
answered.
'Guv'nor. What's happening?'
'According to Karen Green's brother, no one's seen her for nine days. All the
indications are she was taken eight days ago, the morning she was due to travel
to Australia.' Sean muttered a curse at a bus pulling out in front of him, then
resumed: 'Louise Russell's been missing four days, which means we have at best
three or four days to find her before she ends up like Green.'
'What's our next move?'
'Get hold of Roddis, have him divert some of his forensic people to Green's
home address. Tell Zukov and O'Neil to expand their checks on the local Sex
Offenders Register to include anyone with previous for using artifice to gain
entry into private dwellings. Our boy's sticking to what he knows will work.'
'I thought our suspect didn't have previous. How could he be on the register?'
Donnelly asked.
'He might have an overseas conviction,' Sean pointed out, 'or maybe somebody
just fucked up when it came to printing him, I don't know, but let's not assume
anything.'
'OK, I'll see to it.'
'There's one more thing I need you to do, but keep it quiet.'
'And what would that be?'
'Tell Featherstone I need his authority to circulate a request to have all
MISPERs of a similar description to our victims reported directly to us. But no
rubbish, just ones where there are suspicious circumstances surrounding their
disappearance - handbags not taken, phone left behind ...'
'Hang on, guv - we have two victims, one dead and one missing, we know their
identities, so why are we looking for more MISPERs? If he'd killed someone
before Green, we'd already know about it.'
'I'm not thinking about what he did before,' said Sean grimly, 'I'm thinking
about what he'll do next.'
'Next he'll probably kill Louise Russell unless we can find her first,'
Donnelly argued.
'No,' Sean told him. 'Next he's going to grab someone else. He needs to replace
Green. The way I see it, he's on a seven to eight day cycle. Green went missing
eight or nine days ago and Russell four. Green turns up dead this morning,
which means for at least three days he kept them together. If he follows that
pattern, he'll need to grab another within the next day or so.'
'You mean he kept them at the same time, not necessarily together,' Donnelly
corrected him.
Sean was silent for a few seconds, giving himself a chance to work out how to
explain his conviction in a way that would make Donnelly buy into it.
'I'm pretty sure he kept them together,' Sean finally explained. 'To keep them
separate would mean he'd need two secure and secluded places, plus he'd have to
divide his time between them. I can't see him doing that. He wants them
together, where he can keep an eye on both of them at the same time. Less work
for him.'
Sean wasn't ready to go into the real reason he believed the killer would have
kept the women together. If his vision of the man they hunted was accurate, he
would be living out fantasized relationships with his captives, relationships
that disintegrated as the days passed. He needed his new victim to witness the
plight of her predecessor, perhaps as some kind of warning - Please me, or
suffer the same. Whether this psychological torture was deliberate or
subconscious Sean didn't yet know, and wouldn't until he got closer to his
quarry, close enough to start thinking like him, feeling what he was feeling.
Only then would he have the full picture with no need to fill in the gaps with
guesswork.
To Sean's relief, Donnelly accepted his explanation. 'Sounds reasonable,' he
replied. 'I'll let Featherstone know what you want.'
'Good. I'm heading to Guy's for the post-mortem. Do me a favour and keep
everyone on their toes, if they're not already.'
'They are,' Donnelly assured him. 'They understand the situation.'
Sean ended the call and realized he'd been driving like an unthinking
automaton. He checked his mirrors to ensure he hadn't picked up a traffic unit
and pointed his car towards Guy's Hospital and the empty shell that used to be
Karen Green.
Friday lunchtime and Thomas Keller sat alone in the canteen at work repeatedly
stirring a mug of tea that had long ago turned cold, his barely touched plate
of food pushed to one side. He was both agitated and excited, unable to settle
or concentrate on anything other than the woman he would be calling on later
that afternoon. Everything had been planned, from her selection to how, where
and when he would take her. He realized he'd started rocking in his chair like
an inmate of a lunatic asylum and managed to stop himself before anyone
noticed. He tried to chase thoughts of the woman away, aware he needed to
appear to be his normal self - meek, mild and unassuming. A nobody. But he knew
he would never be a nobody to the one person who had truly loved him. And in a
couple of hours he would be seeing her again, saving her from the people who
had filled her head with lies about him. Because this time he had really found
her. They'd tried to trick him, but despite their lies he'd found her, his one
true soul-mate who would never betray him like the others had. He licked his
swollen pink lips as his wide staring eyes peered into an unseen distance.
His daydreaming was suddenly shattered as two workers from the sorting office
noisily pulled out the chairs next to him and sat down, making an intentional
din as they dropped their loaded plates of food on to the table. 'All right,
Timmy son?' the older, bigger man asked. 'You don't mind if we sit with you, do
you, Timmy boy?'
'No,' stammered Keller, trying not to betray his fear of the men and annoyance
at having his sweet daydream interrupted.
'Course you don't,' the same man said. 'Only a sad loser would want to eat on
his own all the time, eh, Timmy?'
Keller forced a slight smile and swallowed the hatred he felt towards them. 'I
don't mind being alone,' he told them weakly. 'And my name's not Timmy, it's
Thomas.'
The smaller of the men leaned across the table, his face uncomfortably close to
Keller's. 'We know what your name is, cunt, and we know you think you're better
than the rest of us - don't you, Thomas?'
'No,' he protested. 'I don't think anything, I just like to be left alone,
that's all. I just don't like the things you like.'
'What - like women?' the bigger man roared. 'Are you a fucking queer, faggot?'
The words stoked the raging hatred he felt towards them and their kind in the
very core of his being. He could feel the eyes of other would-be-persecutors
focusing on him. All around the canteen, ugly grinning faces were turning in
his direction, baring row upon row of sniggering stained white teeth. He pushed
back from the table and jumped up to his full height, almost knocking his chair
over, but his tormentors didn't flinch. They had no fear of him.
'Better be careful, Stevie,' the smaller man feigned terror, cowering away from
Keller. 'I reckon he's gonna do you.'
'Take it easy, Tommy boy,' the bigger man laughed. 'I'm shitting myself here.'
Derisive laughter rippled around the room. To Keller it was the cruellest sound
of all, a constant malignant companion that had haunted him since his earliest
childhood. He imagined locking the doors of the canteen with chains and pumping
petrol through the gaps, savouring the screams of panic from within as his
tormentors smelled the fumes, then striking the match, letting it fall from his
fingers, watching as it slowly drifted to the floor, the flames igniting and
spreading like a forest fire through dry bushland, reducing the men inside to
charred, twisted statues.
A voice full of hate and bigotry pulled him back to reality. 'Well, Tommy boy -
what you going to fucking do about it?'
Keller turned on his heels and walked as quickly as he could towards the exit
without actually running, bursting through the swing doors of the canteen, the
slight laughter he left behind amplified into a cacophony in his dysfunctional
mind.
He raced down three flights of stairs to the basement and burst into the old
storeroom that had become his place of refuge whenever the need to be alone
overwhelmed him. There was no lock or bolt, so he had to make do with propping
a chair under the handle to ensure he couldn't be followed or disturbed. Only
then did he allow the tears to flow.
Thomas Keller was no longer of this time. He was a child again, abandoned by
his mother and a father he doubted his mother had even known for more than a
night. They'd promised that he'd be safe and loved in the orphanage, but they'd
lied - he wasn't loved, he was hated. The faces of the other children danced
across his mind, impish and venomous as only children can be, hunting in packs,
seeking out the weak and defenceless. But Thomas Keller wasn't defenceless. He
had fought back, attacking the ringleader of his teasing swarm, sinking his
teeth deep into the child's cheek until he felt them scraping against bone, the
taste of blood sweet and bitter on his tongue and lips. He remembered the
child's terrified screams, the other children also screaming in panic and
fright at the sight of blood running down his chin and dripping on to his shirt
as he snarled like a rabid dog and searched for his next victim. Strong arms
had clenched around his waist and shoulders, pulling him to the ground while
belts secured his ankles and wrists, pulled so tight he could feel neither his
fingers nor his toes. And then he'd seen the syringe in the hands of a faceless
adult, the needle being pushed through his skin, the liquid flowing into his
blood and making it freeze, his body becoming limp while his mind raced and
whirled.
He remembered being gripped under the armpits and dragged across the floor,
through a door into the darkness and down the stairs to the cellar that lay
hidden and forbidden beneath the children's home. The door to the animal cage
had been opened and he was thrust inside, his bonds removed by practised hands,
the door slamming shut, the metal wire of his prison shuddering as the adult
voices moved away. He'd screamed then, screamed for his mother to come and save
him, screamed for her forgiveness, although he didn't know what he'd done
wrong, what crime he must have committed to have been sent here. So he kept
calling for her, fighting against the drugs that invaded his blood, until a
face full of hate and retribution pressed against the wire, hissing at him,
'Call her all you want, you fucking freak. No one's coming for you. She hates
you - do you understand? She hates you. This is your home now, so start getting
used to it, because you're going to be here for a very, very long time.'
6
Sean dumped his car in the ambulance bay at Guy's Hospital and tossed the
police logbook on to the dashboard to warn the hospital's private security
guards not to clamp it. He then used his usual entrance to the giant building,
walking through the Accident and Emergency Department doors clearly marked
'Hospital Staff Only', nodding at the few faces he recognized and ignored by
the rest who rightly assumed what he was. He headed for the main body of the
hospital and the relatively new shopping-foodhall complex that was open to
staff, public and patients alike. He entered the concourse and searched for his
wife, who he'd arranged to meet for a rushed late lunch before he went to see
Dr Canning for the post-mortem of Karen Green. He passed the ubiquitous chain
cafes and found Kate sitting in Starbucks as they had planned, her head buried
in clinical data reports. She hadn't waited for him before grabbing a sandwich
and coffee. He considered not bothering to get himself anything, but the
service queue was mercifully short so he grabbed something that he wouldn't
have to wait to be toasted, ordered the simplest coffee he could find on the
overhead menu-board and headed for his wife who hadn't yet seen him arrive.
'Excuse me. Is this seat taken?'
'My, my,' she joked, 'who is this handsome stranger standing before me?'
'A stranger, I'm afraid so. Handsome, I'm not so sure about that,' he replied,
pulling out a chair and sitting heavily.
'Anyway, what brings you to my neck of the woods, Inspector?'
'That missing woman I told you about.'
'You found her? She's here in Guy's?' Kate asked.
'No,' he said, unwrapping the sandwich he already knew would taste of nothing.
'We were looking for one woman and found another.'
'I don't understand.'
'The woman we were looking for wasn't his first,' he told her in a hushed
voice, checking there were no eavesdroppers. 'The woman we found - he'd already
taken her.'
'So now she can tell you where the other woman is?'
'I'm afraid she won't be able to do that.'
Kate immediately understood the inference. 'I'm sorry,' she said, and meant it.
'Me too.' They sat in silence for a moment without pretending to be interested
in their lunch.
'So I guess I won't be seeing much of you for a while then?'
Sean shrugged his shoulders. 'You know how it is.'
'Yes, Sean,' she sighed, her frustration at having to share him with so much
horror and misery making her sad, 'I know how it is.'
'Things just got a lot worse than I expected. What can I do?'
Kate pulled in heavy lungfuls of air and puffed her cheeks. The coming days,
probably weeks, would be hell as she tried to juggle her work and children with
little or no support from Sean, but she understood the importance of the job he
had to do. She thought of her own two girls and what she would expect of the
police if either of them were missing: she would expect them to work without
end, without sleep, without food or rest until her child was found. She
wouldn't let herself be a hypocrite. 'What can you do?' she replied. 'You can
catch the bastard, that's what you can do.'
Sean actually managed a smile. 'Thanks.'
'So where you going after our luxurious meal?' she asked.
'Over to see Dr Canning for the post-mortem.'
Kate slouched in her chair and smiled without joy. 'Well, I suppose I should
feel honoured. I mean, how many wives are squeezed in between a murder scene
and a post-mortem?'
'I'm doing the best I can.'
'That's what worries me.'
'You never know, I might get this one wrapped up sooner rather than later.
Whoever I'm looking for has been leaving a lot of evidence behind -
fingerprints, DNA - and he takes them in broad daylight. He'll make a mistake
soon enough, then the evidence will hang him.'
'I hope you're right.'
'I hope so too,' he said, glancing at his watch and standing, taking half the
sandwich and leaving everything else. 'I've got to go. Dr Canning'll be waiting
for me.'
'Well, that was short and sweet,' Kate said. 'Is there any chance I might see
you at home later?'
'Maybe, but don't wait up. I'll try and call you.' He leaned across the table
and kissed her lightly on the lips, embarrassed even by such a small show of
public affection. She watched him walking quickly across the concourse, weaving
his way through the other pedestrians, torn between her attraction to his
intensity and the fear that one day she might lose him to his job. It left her
feeling melancholy.
Sean pushed the last of his sandwich into his mouth and at the same time felt
his phone vibrating in his jacket pocket. He forced the dry bread down his
throat and checked the caller ID. It was Sally. He tapped the answer key.
'Sally - you got something for me?'
'Karen Green's Micra just turned up in a car park in Mazzard's Wood, Bromley
Common, secure and undamaged.' An image of tall trees leaning in the wind
jumped into Sean's mind.
'OK,' he said, 'send someone to babysit the car until forensics can get to it,
and make sure they give it a good once-over before taking it off to Charlton.'
He swerved to avoid bumping into an elderly couple passing him in the corridor.
'I'll be at Guy's for another hour or so. Keep me informed.' He hung up and
immediately searched for another number in his phone, tapped 'call' and waited
for an answer.
'Hello,' DC Zukov answered.
'Paulo, how are you getting on with the tattoo inquiry? Any luck?'
'Nothing yet. I've checked the Internet for the design and drawn a blank. And
I've emailed a picture of the tattoo to most of the tattoo parlours in the area
in the hope someone may recognize their own handiwork.'
'Good. Keep at it,' Sean told him.
He hung up and slid the phone back into his pocket as he exited the main
entrance. Cutting across the front car park, he turned left and out of the main
flow of pedestrians and headed towards the oldest part of the hospital. He
passed the department marked clinical waste, with ominous-looking fluorescent
wheelie bins waiting outside and walked through the swing doors discreetly
signed 'Pathology'. Pushing his way through the thick rubber strips that hung
from ceiling to floor, he entered the autopsy suite.
Sean looked around the large room. Two bodies lay covered, awaiting attention
while Dr Canning busied himself with the body of Karen Green. She was laid out
on the examination table, a cold stainless steel surface with a shallow channel
running along its middle that drained into a plughole, enabling the removal of
blood and other fluids. He could see that Canning had already cleaned the body
up in an effort to distinguish haemorrhaging from dirt.
At the sound of Sean snapping on a set of surgical gloves, Canning looked up.
'Afternoon, Inspector.'
Sean ignored the nicety. 'Any trouble moving the body from the scene?'
'No,' Canning replied. 'I carried out a close examination of the area around
the body, but didn't find anything startling. I should think the evidence we're
after will be on or in her body.' Sean nodded his agreement. 'Aside from the
throat, I haven't opened her up yet, but I don't expect to find any significant
internal injuries other than the crushed trachea I've already discovered, which
was almost certainly what killed her.'
'What about the head wound?'
'The skin on the back of her head has been split by a blow from a blunt,
cylindrical object, but the wound's not nearly significant enough to have
contributed to her death.'
'Could it be post-mortem?' Sean asked. 'The killer for some reason trying to
draw us away from the real cause of death?'
Canning shook his head. 'No, there was too much bleeding from the wound for it
to be post-mortem, although it was inflicted very close to the time of death,
which was about twenty-four hours ago. Perhaps your killer wanted to knock her
senseless before committing the terrible deed.'
The image of the faceless man standing behind Karen Green in a dark forest
raced into Sean's mind, the blunt, heavy object being raised above his shoulder
and then brought down hard on the back of her head, pitching her forward to the
soft, wet ground. 'Any signs of sexual assault?'
'Numerous,' Canning answered, 'and probably committed over a period of time - a
few days at least. She has semen in her vagina, upper and lower, as well as her
anus. Both vagina and anus show extensive bruising consistent with
non-consensual intercourse and there are signs of some tearing at the entrance
to her anus that are consistent with the same. It would appear you are looking
for a rather unpleasant individual.'
'That much I already know,' said Sean.
'Just as you knew I would soon have a female body recovered in woodland to
examine.' Canning locked eyes with Sean, waiting for him to blink first. 'I
reckon it would take a sharper scalpel than mine to dissect that brain of
yours.'
'I'm not as insightful as you think,' Sean confessed. 'This isn't the woman I
was expecting to find.'
Canning raised an eyebrow. 'Then am I to expect more ladies of the forest?'
'At this stage, all we can do is hope for the best and be prepared for the
worst.'
Eager to conclude the autopsy and get back to the office, Sean directed
Canning's attention back to the body on the table. 'When I had a cursory look
at the scene, I saw a tattoo on the underside of her right forearm - a phoenix,
I think.'
'You mean this?' Canning rotated her forearm to expose the garish little
picture. 'Not a tattoo, Inspector - a transfer. Common enough, but not usually
found on an adult. Did she have any children?'
'No.'
'Perhaps she worked with children, a nursery or infant teacher?'
'No,' Sean repeated. 'Children weren't a part of her life.'
'Then you have another mystery on your hands.'
Sean thought for a moment. 'She was about to go travelling, to Australia and
possibly beyond. Maybe she wanted to appear more exotic, but didn't have the
courage to get the real thing?'
'That I wouldn't know, Inspector. Conjecture is your field of expertise, not
mine.'
Sean took a long hard look at the body, noting the injuries he'd already
observed when he'd first seen her lying in the woods - the split lip showing
signs of healing, the grazing and bruising on her fingers and knee - none of
which required Canning's skill to explain. But there were other bruises too,
more clear now her flesh had been cleaned: small, round injuries that looked as
if they had tiny burns at their centres.
'What are these?' he asked, his finger hovering over the strange marks. 'They
look like bruises with burns in the centre.'
'I've been trying to fathom out what those are,' said Canning. 'Almost like
cigarette burns surrounded by a cylindrical bruise. I'll have to run some
simulation tests and see if I can reproduce the effect, find out what caused
them.'
Sean pointed to a square-shaped bruise that also showed signs of burning. 'Any
ideas what made that mark?'
'It's an older injury,' Canning explained, 'at least a week or so. I've seen it
before, although not very often.'
'Then you know what it is?'
'That, Inspector, if I'm not mistaken, is an injury caused by a stun-gun.'
'Caused at the same time as she was abducted?'
'More or less - best as I can tell.'
'So that's how he incapacitates them: as soon as they open the door, he hits
them with the stun-gun and then goes to the chloroform?'
'It's quite possible,' Canning agreed. 'Will that narrow the field for you? The
sale and ownership of such an item in this country is highly restricted.'
'I doubt he obtained it legally - probably picked it up on the Continent and
smuggled it into the country, but we'll check. Anything else for me, other than
the superficial stuff? Anything I can use straight away?'
'Well ...' Canning began, pricking Sean's interest, 'when I was swabbing the
body I could smell traces of cosmetics. I took a closer look and, although it's
too early to say, I believe she had recently applied both cream and perfume to
her body. Looking at the general state of her, I would say she hasn't been
allowed to bathe for several days, which is why the traces remain, but still,
cosmetics of this type generally don't stick around for more than four or five
days. I noticed the police report said she'd been missing for eight to nine
days, which means--'
Sean cut across him, his head flooding with thoughts and images that made
almost perfect sense, yet contradicted so much. 'Which means they were applied
while she was being held captive. He made her put them on.'
'Or he put them on her,' Canning offered.
'No, I don't think so,' Sean dismissed the suggestion. 'Clearly she didn't have
access to washing facilities for at least the last few days, but if the cream
and perfume aren't fresh it could mean that round about the same time he
stopped allowing her to wash he also stopped giving her them to use.'
Canning opened his mouth to speak but Sean raised a hand to silence him, his
fickle brain dangling the answers tantalizingly close before snatching them
away. He slowed his mind, relaxing and concentrating at the same time, clearing
the fog of a thousand unrelated thoughts to allow the answers to come.
'He treated her well at first,' he began, 'gave her food and water, somewhere
to wash. She was special to him, so special he gave her body cream and even
perfume, as if she was his, his lover, but then something changed. Something
changed and she became nothing to him, nothing more than a problem to be
removed. He didn't feed her any more, or allow her to wash or even wear
clothes, and there was no more pampering with cosmetics, just rape and torture.
And when he couldn't stand the sight of her any more he took her into the woods
and killed her like a farmer would kill an old sheep dog that couldn't earn its
keep, without feeling or remorse. And then he left her cold and unclothed in
the woods and went back to the woman he'd taken to replace her. He went back to
Louise Russell and the cycle started all over again. But who did Karen Green
replace? Or was she the one you coveted above all others, the one you
fantasized about for years before taking her?' He froze for a few seconds, then
turned back to Canning. 'The swabs you took from her body, with the cream and
perfume samples - can I take them with me?'
'Why would you want to do that?' Canning asked, perplexed by the break with
procedure.
'I need to know if she's the one that triggered his behaviour.'
'How will the swabs help you know if she was the one who caused him to behave
in this extreme way?'
'Not caused,' Sean corrected him, 'triggered. The cause of his behaviour has
its roots deep in his past. God only knows what's happened to him during his
life to make him what he is now, to make an angry boy grow into a dangerous
man. Maybe Karen Green showed him some kindness or affection that drew him to
her, but he misinterpreted her, made more of it than there was and so she
pushed him away. He couldn't handle the rejection, so he did something about
it. He did this. If the swabs contain cream and perfume that we also find at
her house, then I'll know they were hers and therefore that she could well be
the one he's always coveted. But if they're not, then he made her use them
because he was trying to make her someone else.'
Canning lifted several plastic phials from the portable table he kept his tools
on and handed them to Sean. 'Here,' he said, 'take them, if you think it will
help.'
'Thanks.' Sean slipped them carefully into his breast pocket. 'They will. I
look forward to your report.'
'You should have it in a couple of days, but you already know the main
findings.'
'Anything else? Anything at all?' Sean asked.
'Perhaps one last thing,' said Canning. 'I took scrapings from under her finger
and toe nails, which of course contained soil and dirt, but at a first look
under the microscope they appear to contain something rarer. I'll have to send
them to the lab for a proper examination, but my guess would be coal dust. I'll
know for sure after it's properly analysed.'
'Coal dust?' Sean's dancing eyes reflected his racing thoughts. 'Coal dust?' he
repeated.
'At a first guess, yes.'
'He kept her underground. Before he killed her, he kept her underground - in an
old cellar or coal bunker.'
'That's a logical suggestion,' Canning agreed.
Sean nodded, turned and headed for the exit, his mind already swimming with
images of cold, stone dungeons underground.
Sally was pacing up and down in front of Karen Green's house, still waiting for
forensics to arrive. She'd finished interviewing Terry and sent him on his way
almost an hour ago, and was beginning to feel as if she was being deliberately
isolated from the rest of the team and excluded from the main body of the
investigation, but couldn't be sure if her feelings were manifestations of
paranoia or real. One thing she knew that was real was that cops looked upon
colleagues who were struggling mentally as if they had an infectious disease
that could spread to them. It was like failure, always deserted, always an
orphan - a mandatory sentence of solitary confinement. It reinforced her
conviction to hide her troubles as best she could and mention them to no one.
The phone she clutched in her palm made a noise like a small hungry animal and
vibrated. She saw it was Sean. 'Guv'nor!'
'Have forensics got there yet?' he asked.
'No.'
'Good. Listen, I need you to go inside the house and gather up any
moisturizers, creams, lotions and perfumes you can find. Check out the cabinet
in the bathroom - that's where I remember seeing them when I took a look around
this morning. Once it's all been bagged and tagged, bring them straight to the
lab at Lambeth. I'll meet you there - understood?'
'Understood, but ...' he hung up before she could ask for an explanation, doing
little to lessen her paranoia.
Shrugging her doubts away, Sally looked at the two keys she held in her
non-phone hand, turning and lifting them towards the locks. Anxiety rushed at
her, paralysing her, refusing to let her move no matter how hard she tried. She
surrendered and lowered the keys, despondent to have been seemingly defeated by
a task she would have given little or no thought to before Sebastian Gibran
attempted to tear her life away.
She managed to stop the tears before they grew too heavy and rolled from her
eyes. She took a couple of deep breaths. 'Come on,' she whispered, 'just
fucking do it.' Her hand began to rise, slowly, nervously, wary that at any
second the anxiety could return and seize control of her body. She jiggled the
mortise lock until she felt it smoothly slide from its secure position with a
satisfying heavy click. Then she recovered the key and swapped it for the Yale
key, again jiggling it into the precision-made slot, but with more difficulty
this time, haunted by memories of the night when she'd fumbled with her own
keys, at her own door, panicked by some sense of fear, some sense of being
watched - and she'd been right, her primal instincts had been spot on, but
she'd ignored them, with almost fatal consequences. As her memories threatened
to incapacitate her, the door suddenly popped open and she found herself
stepping inside, the silence and stillness within foreboding and oppressive.
She thanked God it was daytime and closed the door behind her, looking along
the simple, bright hallway with dread.
She didn't want to stay in Karen Green's house a second longer than she had to
and had absolutely no intention of snooping around, something she wouldn't have
been able to resist in the old days. Sean said she'd find the things she was
looking for in the bathroom, so that's where she would go and nowhere else.
Grab the things he wanted and get the bloody hell out of this mausoleum. She'd
bag and tag them properly as evidence once she was safely back outside or in
her car. Sally shivered, feeling accusing eyes watching her, asking her why she
hadn't stopped the man who did this to her. She couldn't stand the silence any
longer. 'Hello,' she called out, but her throat was dry, her voice coarse and
quiet. 'I'm a police officer.' She waited for a reply she knew would never come.
After more than a minute of waiting she pushed herself forward, working hard to
keep her legs striding one in front of the other. With each step her pace
quickened, until she was at the foot of the stairs, then walking up them,
looking straight ahead only, focusing on the space above. When she reached the
top she was relieved to see the bathroom door was ajar, saving her from having
to search around for it. She slowed down again, crossing the upstairs hallway
inches at a time, resting the palm of her hand on the door and pushing it open
gently and quietly, craning her neck to peer inside bit by bit, prepared for
any would-be ambusher. Only once the door rested fully open did she accept she
was alone and the room empty.
Stepping inside, she made her way to the cabinet Sean had mentioned, all the
time thinking of the excuses she would give if she was disturbed while
searching through a dead woman's cosmetics before forensics had examined them.
She pulled on a pair of latex gloves, then opened the cabinet door - and was
confronted by shelves crammed with bottles and jars. There were far more than
she'd expected, and she immediately regretted not having brought a large
evidence bag from her car. She began moving the contents to one side and was
relieved to find what she was looking for - a scrunched-up plastic bag, the
sort people saved to transport bottles that might leak when travelling. She
shook the bag back in to shape and began to pluck items from the shelves and
place them in it as carefully as she could. As the cabinet emptied the bag grew
heavy until she was satisfied she'd taken anything that could pass as a cream,
lotion, moisturizer or perfume.
She closed the cabinet door, anxious to flee the lifeless house before it
shrank in on her even further, but the reflection of her own image in the
mirror made her hesitate. Her face suddenly looked old and worn way beyond her
thirty-four years, her eyes hollow and haunted - joyless. She tried to pull
herself away from the troubling picture in the glass, but couldn't, her hand
sliding inside her jacket and almost unconsciously unfastening a single button
on her blouse, moving across soft, smooth skin, then suddenly recoiling as it
touched the thick raised scar tissue of her upper wound before moving under the
material again until it rested on the lower scar under her breast. She closed
her eyes for a few seconds, her world suddenly merging with Karen Green's - two
victims of violent men - one who survived and one who didn't. She felt Karen's
fear and pain, her desperate wish to live another day, her willingness to do
anything if he'd only let her live, just as she herself would have done
anything for Sebastian Gibran if he'd promised to spare her. She had survived -
Karen had not.
Sally pulled her hand from under her blouse and fastened the button
self-consciously. Clutching the plastic bag of cosmetics she walked from the
bathroom and then the house. She locked the front door and walked to her car
without looking back.
Donnelly had remained at the scene where Karen Green had been found. Following
the removal of the body the forensic team were busy in the woods, searching for
evidence hidden between the trees and under the fallen foliage, gathering as
much as they could before the weather turned against them. They might be here
for days, but Donnelly had no intention of sticking around that long. He yawned
widely and decided to head back to the access road and his car for a smoke. As
he sat on the bonnet he saw the familiar figure of DC Zukov walk towards him.
'All right, son?' Donnelly acknowledged him. 'What you doing here?'
'Thought I'd have a look for myself, see if there was anything I could help
with.'
'You've got your actions to complete, haven't you, same as everyone else?'
'Yeah,' Zukov answered, barely disguising his contempt for the routine course
of an investigation, the day-to-day mundane tasks that had to be completed,
'but the guv'nor's got me wasting my time doing personal inquiries for him,
trying to trace the source of a tattoo on the victim's body that he now tells
me isn't a tattoo after all, it's just a bloody transfer. What the fuck am I
supposed to do with that?'
'What tattoo?' Donnelly kept his tone casual, hiding the concern he felt about
not being kept informed about every aspect of the investigation.
'Like I said,' Zukov replied, 'the tattoo of a phoenix on the victim's arm,
only now we know it's not a tattoo it's a--'
'A transfer,' Donnelly finished for him, 'yeah, yeah, you already told me that.
But why's the boss interested in her tattoo, transfer, whatever the fuck it is?'
'I don't know. He didn't tell me.'
But Donnelly knew - Sean thought the killer put it there, and the fact it was a
transfer and not a tattoo made that all the more likely.
'He's got me checking on scumbags with previous for using artifice too,
particularly those with previous for sex offences and residential burglary.'
Donnelly had to admire Sean, he was an insightful bastard, always two steps
ahead of the rest of them. He didn't like it, but he respected it. 'That makes
sense,' he told Zukov. 'No forced entry into either victim's home, no reason to
believe either knew their attacker. There's a better than fair chance our boy
tricked his way in.'
'Maybe the guv'nor's trying to be too clever?' Zukov argued. 'Maybe whoever
took them just knocked on their doors and they opened them? There's no artifice
there.'
'Whatever,' Donnelly said dismissively. 'I'm off back to the office. You stay
here and liaise with forensics, then you'd better get on with the inquiries the
boss has given you, or you're going to be Mr Unpopular. And by the way, if and
when you find out anything, any suspects flag-up, tell me first and I'll let
the guv'nor know, understand?'
Zukov was on the verge of putting another question but decided against it. Best
to keep his suspicions to himself. Instead he just said, 'Fair enough, guv.'
'Good,' said Donnelly, climbing into his car, the suspension creaking as he sat
heavily in the seat. Zukov had to step clear as he pulled the door shut with a
slam. The engine roared to life and he pulled away with a wheel spin along the
last road Karen Green had ever seen.
It was almost three p.m. on Friday afternoon and Sean was in Lambeth, sitting
in the second-floor Forensic Laboratory reception area, clutching his numbered
ticket and the body swab samples he'd brought directly from the post-mortem. He
glanced at his ticket, the kind they handed out at a supermarket delicatessen
counter, and muttered an obscenity under his breath - if Sally didn't arrive
soon he'd miss his turn and would have to take another ticket and start from
the back of the queue all over again. Back in the days when the lab was run by
the Home Office, it was manned by fellow public servants who were all too ready
to impose harsh words and on-the-spot fines for any incorrectly labelled
exhibits or ill-prepared laboratory submissions forms. Though he wasn't
entirely in favour of the lab being placed in private sector hands, there was
one big advantage from Sean's point of view. Its employees treated him as a
paying customer, entitled to make demands that would previously have been met
with howls of derision from the lowly paid scientists running the show.
His not so fond memories were wiped away the second he saw Sally step through
the automatic double swing-doors, the items she'd grabbed from Karen Green's
bathroom safe inside plastic evidence tubes that were in turn neatly sealed
inside evidence bags. The number counter mounted on the wall clicked around to
show 126 - the number on Sean's blue ticket. He took Sally by the arm and
steered her towards the submissions counter. 'We're up,' he told her.
'It would be nice to know what the hell's going on,' she replied. 'Why you
wanted the stuff from her bathroom, for example, and why I had to drop
everything and rush to the lab with it.'
'Sorry, I didn't have time to explain, but you'll understand why once you've
listened to me explaining it to the lab people.'
They completed the short walk from the waiting room to the exhibit reception
desk, where a slim bespectacled man in his forties was waiting for them with a
private sector smile.
'Afternoon,' he greeted them, 'and what have you got for us today?'
Sean didn't try to match his friendliness. 'Two sets of exhibits from two
different scenes,' he said, pushing the swab tubes across the counter. 'These
exhibits are marked with RC, the initials of the pathologist who took them
during a post-mortem of a woman whose murder we're investigating.' The smile
dropped from the receptionist's face like an Arctic sunset. 'They're swabs
taken from her skin containing some type of cream and an unknown brand of
perfume. These -' he took Sally's exhibits from her and pushed them across the
counter, careful not to mix them with the others - 'are cosmetics and perfumes
taken from the murdered woman's house. I'll keep this simple: I want you to
compare the exhibits taken from the house with the exhibits taken from the body
and see if any of them match. If they do, which ones? And if they don't, I need
to know what brand the cream and perfume taken from her body are, and I need to
know as a matter of urgency. Everything clear?'
'Perfectly,' said the receptionist, partially recovering his smile. 'But it'll
take a few days to get the results, particularly if there's no match between
the two sets of exhibits. Our library of cosmetics isn't vast. We might have to
outsource it.'
'Do the best you can, but make sure the urgency of the situation is understood.'
The receptionist made some notes on the lab submission form and stamped it with
a red marker that said urgent. He handed Sean a copy of the form by way of
receipt. 'Good enough?' he asked.
'I hope so,' replied Sean, taking the form and heading for the exit.
Thomas Keller left work shortly after four p.m., passing through the gates of
the sorting office still dressed in his uniform, walking fast with his head
down, praying he would not be recognized or accosted by any malevolent
colleagues who would unwittingly ruin what for him was about to become a very
special day. A day he'd been planning for months. He knew her name and where
she lived. He knew she lived alone. He knew the shape of her house and that the
front door could not be seen from the quiet road. He knew that she banked with
NatWest and worked as a nurse at St George's Hospital in Tooting. He knew she
had electricity and gas from On Power, satellite television from Virgin, that
her bins were collected on Thursdays, that she drove a red Honda Civic that she
insured with the AA, that most months she was overdrawn, that she shopped at
ASDA in Roehampton, that she'd been single for a long while but now had a
boyfriend, that if she wasn't working she went out most weekends with some of
her apparently many friends. Above all, he knew she was the one. They'd
poisoned her mind and made her forget, but still she was the one and soon he'd
rescue her from her state of ignorance and make her alive once again and then,
then they could be together as they were always supposed to be: he and Sam
together for ever.
The journey to Tooting Common passed in a blur, making no impression on his
memory at all until he realized he'd arrived at the small car park near the
swimming pool. Surrounded by trees, it was quiet at this time of day, most
people choosing the morning to walk their dogs through the woods. He noted
there were a few cars parked close by, but was sure they would either be gone
by the time he returned or abandoned for the night by owners now too inebriated
to drive them.
Making sure his car was locked, he headed for the pathway that would take him
across the common, keeping an eye out for CCTV cameras he might have failed to
spot on the many occasions he'd walked this route in preparation for today.
Passers-by also came under scrutiny, in case they might be a cop in plain
clothes looking for prostitutes or small-time drug dealers. It hadn't crossed
his mind the police might be looking for him now.
It took him more than ten minutes to walk from the car park to the street - her
street, Valleyfield Road. As he turned off the busy thoroughfares and into the
narrower residential streets there were far fewer pedestrians around and the
sounds of traffic fell away, the murmur of a big city mixing with the
hypnotizing sound of the gentle, tentative spring breeze stirring virgin leaves
on the largely barren trees.
He enjoyed the peaceful sounds and the warm air that surrounded him, still
fresh from the cold of winter, unspoilt by the coming heat of a London summer.
He breathed in deeply, reassured by the calmness he felt, his fears fading with
every step. Occasionally he walked up to one of the houses that lined the
street to post junk mail through the letterbox, just in case he was being
watched by suspicious eyes. As he drew ever closer to number 6 he felt calm and
in control, the experience of taking the other two helping him now as he began
to mentally rehearse what would happen the minute he stepped inside the hallway
of the newly built townhouse close to the end of the road.
Finally he reached the end of her driveway and paused, searching through his
postal bag, apparently looking for the letters addressed to 6 Valleyfield Road.
But his bag contained no such letters. The only contents were a squeezy bottle
of chloroform, a clean fold of material to apply it to, a roll of masking tape
and, most importantly, a stun-gun.
Deborah Thomson was tired after coming off a twelve-hour early shift at St
George's, but her mood was buoyant. The rest of her day was full of things she
was looking forward to. First she needed to change out of her uniform and go
for a quick run across the common, then home for a long, hot shower. After that
she'd take her time getting ready for a night out with friends in a local
gastro-pub. No men tonight, just the girls. She was looking forward to telling
them all about her new boyfriend, who she'd be seeing tomorrow. A whole
Saturday with her new love, and the entire weekend off. It didn't get any
better.
Humming to herself as she tugged off her sensible work shoes and tossed them to
one side, she broke off when the sound of the doorbell ringing interrupted her
preparations. 'Bollocks,' she swore, and set off downstairs vowing to be rid of
the interloper as quickly as possible.
She bounced across the hallway to the front door, pausing to look through the
spyhole. Having been brought up in New Cross, a south-east London neighbourhood
where poverty went hand-in-hand with criminality, she never opened the door
unthinkingly. There was a man in postman's uniform on the doorstep. He stepped
back a little so she could see almost all of his body, and reached into his
bag, pulling out a parcel the size of a small shoebox, too large to fit through
the letter slot.
Deborah opened the front door, the smile returning to her face. 'Hi,' she
chirped, expecting him to confirm her name and hand over the parcel, but he
said nothing. Too late she sensed danger as the hand not holding the parcel
whipped out of the bag at lightning speed clutching a strange-looking object.
As it moved towards her, she reacted, slamming the door into his shoulder, but
the stun-gun had already made it through the gap between door and frame and
buried itself in her stomach. She flew backwards as if hurled by an invisible
force, what little air she had left in her chest knocked out of her lungs as
she lay convulsing on the hallway floor.
The man staggered and dropped to his knees alongside her, then reached into his
bag. She stared from her frozen state of purgatory as he took a squeezy bottle
and a fold of material, followed by a roll of black heavy-duty tape. She tried
to speak, to beg him to leave her alone, not to hurt her, but could make only
unintelligible guttural noises. He placed one finger to his lips.
'Ssssh,' he urged her. 'Everything's going to be all right now, Sam. I've come
to take you home.'
Sean checked his watch as he pulled up outside the home of Douglas Levy, the
Neighbourhood Watch coordinator for Louise Russell's street. For a moment he
sat looking across the road at her house, seeing DC Cahill's car parked at the
end of the drive. He knew he should look in on Cahill and John Russell, show
his face and offer support and encouragement, but he couldn't find it in
himself. He'd come here in the mood for harassment, not empathy.
Breathing the cool air through his nose, he approached Levy's front door and
pressed the bell. He heard firm footsteps approaching from within, locks on the
other side of the door turning and eventually the door opening, Levy standing
tall and proud.
'Me again,' Sean announced before he could get a word in. 'I have a few more
questions for you if that's OK.'
'Well, yes, but I wasn't expecting to have to speak to the police again.'
'This won't take long,' Sean assured him. 'May I come in?'
Levy hesitated for a second before stepping aside. 'Of course.'
'Thanks.' Sean stepped past him and walked briskly into the neat interior. He
still couldn't sense a woman's presence inside and couldn't help wondering when
and why Levy's wife had left him. He began to wander around the downstairs of
the house, deliberately making Levy feel uncomfortable and challenged. Sean
wanted him off-balance, flustered, answering questions without stopping to
think; that way he would give true answers, not the ones he thought he should
or the ones he thought Sean wanted to hear.
'It occurred to me,' Sean began, 'after the last time we talked, that whoever
took her must have been here before, in this street. He would have wanted to
watch, to study her movements so he could plan when and how to take her, don't
you think?'
'Maybe,' Levy stumbled, 'I suppose so, I mean, I don't really know. Why are you
telling me this?'
'I was just thinking about you being in all day, most days anyway, and how a
man like you, Neighbourhood Watch coordinator and all that, would have noticed
someone hanging around.'
'I would have, but I didn't,' Levy answered, the little patience he had
failing, exactly as Sean had hoped. 'And I'm not in all day, every day.'
'No, of course not,' Sean patronized him, walking along the corridor to the
lounge at the rear of the house, Levy pursuing him closely. 'I see your lounge
is at the back of the house, not overlooking the street, so even if you were at
home, you'd be in here all day watching telly and wouldn't have seen anything.'
'I'm a very busy man, Inspector. I can assure you I do not waste my time
watching daytime TV. I have the Neighbourhood Watch to see to and I'm a local
councillor too - and have been for many years.'
'So where do you work?' Sean asked. 'Where do you attend to all these important
matters?'
'Here, of course. In my office upstairs.'
'Really?' Sean strode past him and up the stairs, searching for Levy's office
and finding it - a converted bedroom that had an excellent view of the street
outside. He entered the room and walked to the window, sensing Levy's presence
close behind. 'Nice view,' he said, without turning away from the window.
'I don't work in here for the view,' Levy replied.
'No,' Sean agreed, 'but if someone was hanging around out there, someone you
didn't know or recognize, you'd have noticed them, wouldn't you?' He turned to
Levy and then back to the window to make the point. 'How could you not?'
'I don't spend all day spying on my neighbours.'
'I never said you did.'
'I mean I don't spend all day staring out of the window - I have work to do.'
'But if someone was out there, you'd sense the movement and look up, wouldn't
you?'
'I suppose so, possibly, I don't really know.'
'But this is a Neighbourhood Watch area, isn't it? You know that better than
anyone - you're the coordinator, after all. You did say you were the
coordinator?'
'Yes, I did ... I mean, I am.'
'Then you must be a vigilant man, yes? A more than vigilant man if you're
responsible for the success or failure of the local Neighbourhood Watch. So you
would have noticed a stranger in the street below. Maybe you would have even
called the police, or at least made a note of it somewhere? Maybe you've just
forgotten? Maybe you're embarrassed that you forgot to mention it to me last
time we spoke?'
'No,' Levy protested. 'None of what you're implying happened.'
'So you've never seen anyone suspicious in the street? You're telling me you
never looked out of this window and saw someone suspicious?'
'Well, yes, of course I--'
'And what did you do about it?'
'I can't remem--'
'You can't remember? The Neighbourhood Watch coordinator can't remember what he
did when he saw someone suspicious in his own street?'
'Maybe I reported it to the police, I'm not sure.'
'When did you report it?'
'I don't know. I can't remember. You're confusing me.'
'Can you remember anything?'
'There's nothing wrong with my memory.'
'What does your local Home Beat Officer look like?'
'Excuse me?'
'What does your local Home Beat Officer look like?'
'Well, I ...'
'What's his name?'
'It's ... I have it written down somewhere.'
'When do the bins get collected?'
'Pardon?'
'When were there last roadworks in the street?'
'I'm not--'
'What does the guy who comes to read the meters dress like?'
'I ...'
'What does the local postman look like?'
'He's, well he's--'
'Do you know anything, Mr Levy? These are the things you see every day, but you
can't remember any of it.'
Levy looked crushed. 'Why are you doing this?' he pleaded. 'Why are you doing
this to me?'
At Levy's words, Sean froze. For a moment he stood in a daze, as if only now
returning to himself, bewildered and afraid of what his alter ego might have
done in his absence, like a drunk waking the morning after, unable to recall
the events of the previous night. What worried him most was the fact he'd
enjoyed being cruel to Levy. Was that why he'd come back to interview him for a
second time, so he could be cruel to him? Was that why he'd come alone, so no
one would witness his cruelty or try to stop him? He decided both were probably
true, and in the pit of his soul he knew why - he was drawing closer to the
killer he would one day be face to face with. Across a street, across an
interview-room table? He couldn't be sure where their confrontation would take
place, but he knew it would happen soon. Already he was beginning to think like
him and feel what he could feel.
At the same time, he'd felt sure Levy had some vital piece of the puzzle locked
away in his uncooperative memory, something he needed to squeeze out of him, no
matter what. Now he was less certain. He forced himself to speak: 'I'm sorry. I
was just trying a new witness interview technique,' he lied. 'It's supposed to
distract the witness by making them feel angry, allowing suppressed memories to
be freed subconsciously.'
Levy studied him, deciding whether or not to believe him. 'Well,' he said, 'it
doesn't seem to work, does it?'
'No,' Sean pretended to agree, still feeling numb. 'I'm sorry. I've wasted
enough of your time.' He almost pushed past Levy in his haste to leave the neat
little office and escape his house and all the pointlessness it stood for. He
began to descend the stairs with Levy in close pursuit, hell-bent on haranguing
him all the way to the front door.
'And just for the record, I do know what the local postman looks like, now I've
had time to think about it.'
'What?' Sean snapped at him, interested. 'What does he look like?'
'Well, he's black for starters - which no doubt explains a thing or two - about
fifty, short and stocky, with a beard and moustache.'
'I'll make a note of it,' Sean lied again. The age, colour and build of Levy's
postman were all wrong. 'It may come in useful, thank you.' The front door
glowed in front of him like a porthole to another, better world.
'I distinctly remember him because I had to complain about him a few days ago.'
'Really?' Sean's hand was reaching out for the door handle.
'I'd specifically asked the Post Office to stop putting junk mail through my
letter box - damn stuff was filling my recycling bin. Miraculously, I thought
they'd actually listened, but then the other day a bloody great pile was pushed
through my door. So I phoned them and gave them a good dressing down. Anyway,
it did the trick - no more junk mail.'
For the second time Levy's words made him freeze. 'Sorry. What did you just
say?'
'Excuse me?' Levy replied, suspicious of Sean's interest in his petty complaint.
'Someone put junk mail through your letter box, although previously you'd
stopped receiving it?'
'Yes,' Levy answered, confused. 'Because I'd told them to stop posting it, and
for a while they did.'
'But it started again?' Sean asked, the fluttering in his chest and bright
whiteness behind his eyes telling him he was close to something he needed,
close to a key that would unlock the way to the man he had to find and stop.
'Yes, a few days ago.'
'How many times?'
'I told you, just once, because I phoned them and gave them a--'
'When?' he cut Levy dead.
'I ... I'm not sure, a few days ago. Why?'
'I need to know when - exactly when.'
'I really couldn't say.'
'Morning? Afternoon?'
'Morning, definitely morning.'
'How can you be so sure? What were you doing?'
'I remember, I was walking down the stairs, I was dressed and ready to go out,
so it must have been late morning. I saw the mail spilled over the floor as I
walked downstairs.'
'And it made you angry?'
'I was annoyed, yes.'
'So you phoned the Post Office straight away?'
'No.'
'Why?'
'Because I needed to get away.'
'Get away for what?'
'I'm--'
'You put off calling the Post Office, so it must have been something important.
What were you getting ready for?'
'Brunch,' Levy remembered, the weight lifting as soon as he said it. 'I was
going out for brunch, at the garden centre in Beckenham.'
'What?' Sean snapped.
'It's half-price for pensioners on Tuesdays.'
'Tuesday - Jesus Christ,' Sean said to himself, 'he's dressing as a postman.
That's how he gets the doors open, he dresses like a fucking postman.' The
images played in his mind like a short film, the faceless man walking along
Louise Russell's street, dressed in a postal uniform, Royal Mail bag over his
shoulder, calm and relaxed, knowing exactly what he was doing, every so often
casually walking to other front doors and dropping junk mail through letter
boxes. The perfect urban disguise.
Levy chased the images away. 'What are you talking about, Inspector?'
'Nothing. I have to go.' He turned his back on Levy and pulled the front door
open, leaving without another word, oblivious to Levy shaking his head in
disapproval as he closed his front door. As he walked to his car he talked to
the faceless man whose features were beginning to appear more distinct: 'I can
feel you now, my friend. We'll be seeing each other soon.'
The car bumped wildly as Thomas Keller drove too quickly over the uneven
surface of his driveway, rocking him violently in his seat. Hearing the loud
banging from the boot as his precious cargo was tossed around, he frowned with
concern. He didn't want her damaged. He needed her pristine if she was to be
everything he wanted her to be.
By the time the car slid to a halt outside his ramshackle breezeblock cottage
it was gone 5 p.m. Darkness would be closing in within another hour or two.
Wanting to make sure everything was ready before night descended, he grabbed
the keys from the ignition and jumped from his old Ford Mondeo, tripping and
stumbling as he hurried to the front door.
Ignoring the squalor and filth, he ran through the house to the tiny spare
bedroom, just big enough for a single bed - not that there was one. The room
was in semi-darkness, its one window facing north, away from the sinking sun.
He kicked aside piles of boxes and worn, tattered clothes until he uncovered
what he was after: an old, thin, stained single mattress that was folded in two
but sprang open as the weight was removed from on top of it. Taking hold of the
mattress as best he could, he tried to shift it. But it was heavier than he'd
remembered and he struggled to haul it through the confined space, cursing
himself for not having moved it earlier. He'd planned everything so
meticulously, weeks and weeks of making sure there would be no mistakes, yet
somehow he'd failed to ensure things would be ready for her once he got her
home.
Next time, he vowed to himself, he would be better prepared. The admission that
there would be more, that his chosen one was already damned, was a paradox his
consciousness did not dwell on.
He dragged the mattress from the room and along the narrow hallway, trying to
suppress the anger and frustration welling within him as he battled with the
inanimate foe. Passing through the narrow entrance to the kitchen, he scraped
his knuckles on the door frame and let out a scream of pain. Throwing the
mattress to the floor, he sucked on the blood that trickled through his broken
skin. Then, as if trying to exorcise the rage from his body, he gave vent to
his fury, stamping on the mattress and yelling abuse. Instead of receding, his
anger grew; he tugged open a kitchen drawer and snatched a knife from inside,
dropping to his knees on the offending mattress and plunging the blade deep
into the foam, over and over again until fatigue weighed down his thin arms and
calmed his frantic mind.
As his self-control gradually returned he loosened his grip on the knife and
let it fall to the floor. He knocked it away, not looking as it slid across the
old linoleum surface, his focus now on the damage to the mattress. There were
two or three dozen stab marks, mostly in the centre, but fortunately it was
made of foam and would still serve its purpose. Thomas crouched over it,
waiting for his breathing to slow, feeling the sweat running down his back grow
cold, making him shiver as it reached the base of his spine. He sniffed loose
mucus from his nose and stood, then he took hold of the mattress once more and
hauled it outside.
As he dragged it past his car he could hear knocking coming from the boot,
reminding him of the need to be quick - the boot wasn't air-tight, but she
couldn't survive in there indefinitely. But despite his efforts the journey
across his courtyard took for ever, the mattress snagging on every obstacle,
forcing him to wrestle it this way and that to get it loose. Eventually he
reached the cellar door and undid the padlock, pulled the door open and threw
the mattress down the stairs. The one already down there was moving around in
her cage, no doubt startled by the noisy arrival of her soon-to-be companion's
makeshift bed. He descended the stairs slowly, brushing dust from his postman's
uniform, feeling physically and mentally exhausted, but at the same time
exuberant at having achieved what he set out to.
When he reached the bottom step he saw her cowering in the far corner of her
cage, the duvet wrapped around her for protection as much as warmth. As he
approached, she tried to retreat further, but there was nowhere for her to go.
Producing another key from his trouser pocket, he unlocked her cage door and
swung it slowly open, crouching down to peer in, but averting his eyes from her
face, as if she were a Medusa with the power to turn him to stone merely by
looking at him.
'Give me the quilt,' he demanded. She neither said nor did anything. 'Give me
the fucking quilt,' he repeated, shouting now, but still avoiding her gaze.
His anger made her jump. Her face distorting in readiness for the tears that
welled from her emerald green eyes, she unpeeled the duvet and pushed it
towards him with her feet, her legs kicking it away quickly as if it were an
intruding rat or spider. He grabbed it by the corner and pulled it off her and
out of the cage in one movement, slamming the door shut and re-securing the
padlock before moving to the other cage, dragging both the mattress and duvet
with him. Stooping to pass through the entrance, he hauled the bedding inside,
taking care to straighten out the mattress and lay the duvet on top of it so he
could wrap her inside once she was in her safe place.
Happy with the arrangement, he left the cage and walked as quickly as his
exhausted body would allow back to the car, looking up to the sky to ensure he
still had plenty of daylight to play with, giving himself a few seconds to
gather his composure before meeting her properly after all this time. When he
was ready, he leaned into the front of the car and removed the bottle of
chloroform and pad of material from his bag, stuffing them both into his jacket
pocket. Then he pulled the lever that unlocked the boot and stepped away from
the car. Breathing deeply, as if preparing himself to receive some
life-changing news, he walked the few steps to the back of the car, coiled his
fingers under the boot latch and pressed. The cover popped open, slowly and
quietly rising with a pneumatic hiss.
Deborah Thomson blinked fast and hard against the punishing light that swarmed
into the boot. She tried to speak, to call out for help or mercy, but her
incoherent cries were prevented from escaping by the thick black tape fastened
across her mouth. Before her eyes could adjust the light began to recede again
and she felt a presence above her, the outline of someone leaning in. Despite
the chill of fear running through her, she kicked her legs, trying to find
purchase, her feet scraping and scuffing the interior surface of the boot.
The shape came closer and closer, her vision improving quickly, enabling her to
make out the shape of a head and shoulders. More detail soon followed: his
unkempt brown hair, strands of which had stuck to a forehead slick with a sheen
of sweat; his crooked stained teeth glistened in the faint light; the writhing
sinews of his thin arms, hands and neck, all latticed with swollen blood
vessels. She saw his lips open and close and realized he was speaking, his
words seeming to reach her seconds after he'd spoken them.
'Don't struggle,' he warned her, 'you could hurt yourself. I'm taking you to
your safe place now, but you'll still be a little woozy because of the
chloroform. You'll have to let me help you walk, but first we need to get you
out of this boot.'
Her eyes betrayed the horror she felt, the sheer disbelief that this could be
happening to her. She struggled to recall the last thing she could remember
before the darkness came, her mind awash with tentative images of being in her
bedroom, being annoyed by someone unexpected calling at the front door ... Then
the nightmare overtook her, the feeling of being unable to move, unable to run
from danger, followed by darkness and suffocation, confinement and the
sensation of being buried alive. As his long, insect-like fingers reached for
her, Deborah knew this nightmare was real. She felt his clammy hands touching
her, one sliding under the back of her neck as the other coiled around her
upper arm, gripping it tightly.
'Sit up,' he instructed, tugging roughly on her arm and neck, gritting his
teeth with the effort. Instead of cooperating, she pushed against him,
burrowing as deep as she could into the boot. He tightened his grip and pulled
her, his face flitting between a thin, forced smile and a grimace of anger and
effort. 'No, no,' he told her, 'don't do that. We have to get you out of here.
It's not safe. They might be watching us. I can't do this on my own. I need you
to help me.' He tugged her again, making her cry out with pain, but ignoring
her muffled pleas he carried on pulling until he had forced her to bend at the
waist into a sitting position. 'That's it. Almost there now,' he panted.
Her eyes left him, frantically searching for help or an opportunity to run or,
if she had to, to fight back. But her vision was swimming in and out of focus,
her mind and body too weak with shock and the remaining effects of the
chloroform. She knew any attempt to escape or attack would be pointless.
Keeping one hand on her back, he used the other to scoop her legs one at a time
over the rim of the boot. Then he perched beside her, one arm snaking around
her waist while the other cradled her bound forearms.
'Ready?' he asked. 'OK, let's do this together.' He pushed with his legs,
thrusting them both to their feet, relieved she could support most of her own
weight. 'Good,' he said, propelling her forward. 'Now we need to walk.'
Stumbling and staggering, they crossed the uneven courtyard. Sweat was pouring
off him from the effort of supporting her, and his breathing was heavy and
erratic. The smell of his sweet almond breath drifting into her face made her
gag behind the tape that covered her mouth. Deborah tried to draw fresh air in
through her nose to calm the nausea and clear her head of the drug-induced fog,
instinct telling her that whatever she could learn now, whatever she could
remember seeing as he dragged her across this cluttered wasteland, could yet
prove to be the difference between living or dying.
Finally they reached a red-brick building, no bigger than an outside toilet,
but as he led her through the door she realized it was merely the entrance to
some type of underground shelter left over from the last war, or in readiness
for the next. He steered her down the stairs and she watched him from the
corners of her eyes, her hatred for him burning in her heart. The desire to
attack him, to scratch at his eyes, knee him in his genitals was overwhelming,
but she knew she wasn't yet strong enough and her bindings gave him too much of
an advantage. She reassured herself that the time would come when they would
face each other on more equal terms, and the thought of inflicting pain on him,
of taking revenge, helped to quell the fear that could so easily have
incapacitated her.
'Almost there,' he reassured her, as they stepped off the last stair together.
Deborah could see the outline of the cage he was leading her to, the cage she
knew would be her prison. She wanted to survive. On the most basic animal level
she wanted to survive, and her instincts screamed at her not to go into the
cage, warning her the cage was death.
She spun away from him and for a few confused seconds she was free, moving back
towards the stairs. But her foot became entangled in an old screen and she
toppled backwards, landing heavily on the unyielding stone floor, her hip
bearing the brunt of the fall. Her eyes closed as she winced in pain, opening a
second later as she remembered her perilous situation, searching frantically in
the gloom for the madman she knew would come for her. It was then she saw it:
another cage. Definitely not the one she was being led to but another cage,
with someone inside it, cowering in the corner staring at her, eyes impossibly
wide as they connected with hers in the twilight of the cellar.
She reached for the tape over her mouth and found its corner, ripping it away
painfully, filling her lungs until they could expand no more in readiness to
scream - not in pain, but in desperation, in fear that she would never awake
from this nightmare. In the moment just before the scream was about to escape
her mouth she was sure she could smell and taste perfume in the room, only for
the unexpected pleasure to be replaced by the clinical smell of chloroform and
the sensation of suffocating as damp material was pressed over her open mouth
and nose. Her bound hands clutched at the unseen hands, clawing at them in an
effort to pull them from her face so she could breathe air and not chemicals,
but as the effects of the chloroform swept over her the kicking of her bare
feet became nothing more than a slight twitching, her clawing fingers weakened,
until finally she fell still, arms falling to her sides as her chest rose and
fell gently.
When he felt her stillness he threw the chloroform-soaked pad to the far wall
of the cellar. The effects of being so close to the escaping fumes had begun to
make him feel a little dizzy and disorientated. He turned his face away from
hers to avoid breathing the residual fumes coming from her skin and the inside
of her mouth as she lay in his lap, mouth hanging wide open. He shook his head,
trying to clear the fog, giving himself time to rest and regain his breath,
readying himself for the tasks ahead. Her flawless, slightly olive skin, her
short brown hair - shiny and straight, a few locks now fallen across her face -
and her soft, wet red lips were enticing. He felt his groin tightening as the
testicles swelled and twisted in his scrotum, telling him he needed to move her
before the bad thoughts beat the real him away and took control of his actions.
Gently he cradled her head in his hands as he slipped her from his lap,
positioning her head carefully on the hard floor, making sure it was pointing
towards the cage before scuttling around so he could slide his hands under her
armpits and drag her slowly across the room to the place where he knew she
would be safe. Her body was now an uncooperative dead weight and he had
difficulty manoeuvring her through the narrow entrance. Beads of sweat were
forming under his hairline and down his spine, and once inside the cage it
became even more difficult to move, but at last he managed to manoeuvre her
into position on the mattress he'd prepared for her, arms by her side, legs
together, slightly bent.
His unblinking eyes moved backward and forwards across her body, excitement and
desire returning in waves that threatened to swamp his intentions to worship
her tenderly until she decided it was right for them to be together in that
way. He tried to fight the urge, clenching his fists tightly until he felt his
nails cutting into his palms. He began to fumble at the small buttons that ran
the full length of the front of her nurse's uniform, each one taking an age to
unfasten, his sweaty hands making his task increasingly difficult as the anger
stirred in his guts, flooding his body with adrenalin and testosterone. As the
uniform began to fall open he could see her soft, warm skin, her pretty small
breasts held closely together by a simple white lace bra. He let out an
involuntary moan of pleasure as his hands and eyes brushed her breasts. Forcing
himself to move to the next button, he tried to shake the bewildering
sensations of pleasure from his consciousness, but each button he released
revealed a new glimpse of things so beautiful he could only have imagined them
before he'd begun to search for her. He brushed her unfastened uniform aside
with the back of his hand, unable to resist the temptation to see more of what
lay beneath, but regretting it as soon as the smooth skin of her belly became
visible, desire making him again close his eyes as he struggled to control it.
Once her uniform was fully unfastened he had to twist and bend her elbows in
order to free her arms from the ungiving material, until finally she lay on the
filthy mattress naked but for her white bra and black knickers. His eyes gorged
themselves on her beauty, the translucent skin pulled tight over the frame of
her broad but feminine shoulders, as smooth as marble around her throat and
neck, the rhythmic throbbing of her jugular's pulse hypnotizing. He watched
helplessly as his hands reached out towards her, powerless to stop them as they
fell around her throat, his fingers lying softly against her skin, so softly he
could feel the steady beat of the valve in her blood vessel pumping the
oxygen-hungry blood back towards her heart and lungs. He smiled joyfully as he
spoke to himself. 'Yes. Yes, you're the one. I was right about you.'
His hands slipped under her back, searching for her bra's fastening, his
fingers suddenly more assured and nimble as he undid the clip with little
difficulty, easing the straps from her shoulders, his heart pounding as he so
slowly eased the bra from breasts that moved only slightly when freed, her
nipples becoming slightly erect as the cool air rushed over them. His mouth
fell open at the sight of her, his tongue moving in circles around his lips,
painting them with his saliva. He let the bra fall from his hands, directing
his eyes further down her body, his tongue moving in ever-quickening circles as
his hands once more reached out towards her spellbinding skin. Readjusting his
body position so he was level with her knees, his face pointing towards hers,
he hooked his fingers under the sides of her knickers and slowly rolled them
from her hips, her pubic hair straightening, then curling again as it sprang
free from the laced material, watched by his widening eyes. She moaned a little
as he pulled them from her groin, making him pause, concerned she might be
waking prematurely from the chloroform, but she settled quickly enough. He
decided it must have been a moan of pleasure, that she was dreaming about him
touching her there like he knew she wanted him to.
'Not yet,' he told her. 'It's not time yet. We have other things to do first.'
He continued slowly rolling the black panties from her body until they slipped
from the ends of her toes.
Cowering in the other cage, Louise Russell watched his every move, waves of
nausea washing over her each time he reached out to touch the other woman. She
remembered how she had woken naked in the cage, opening her eyes to the sight
of Karen Green. Now you know, Karen had told her. Now you know what's going to
happen to you. Unless she could do something to stop him, Louise knew the fate
he had in store for her. Somehow she would have to persuade this other woman to
help her. Only if they acted together would they stand any chance of surviving.
Keller was still transfixed by Deborah Thomson. As he stared at her nakedness,
her cut and bloodied feet seemed the only imperfection. He knew he should fold
the duvet over her and leave, but he couldn't, not yet. His hands fell gently
on her ankles and began to slide along her slim, smooth legs, his thumbs
exploring her pubic hair and the cleft of her vagina before moving on to her
soft belly and brushing over her ribs, coming to rest on her breasts, the pain
of ecstasy suddenly too much for him to bear. He released the button of his
trousers and undid the zip, thrusting his hand inside his underpants and
gripping his fully erect penis. Moaning obscenely, he jerked his hand
feverishly, and within seconds warm, sticky fluid was pumping into his hand and
trousers, the relief of orgasm almost as sweet as the relief that he'd been too
close to climax to have tried to enter her, his dark side threatening to spoil
everything. He wiped his hand clean on the inside of his trousers and
sheepishly gathered her clothes, carefully folding the duvet over her and
leaning in to plant a gentle kiss on her forehead.
He crawled from her cage and stood fastening his trousers before securing the
door. As he walked from the cellar he pulled the light cord, plunging the room
into darkness, not once looking in Louise Russell's direction. Closing the
metal door behind him, he walked to an old oil drum and threw Deborah Thomson's
clothes inside. Then he lifted a can of petrol he kept next to the drum,
unscrewed the lid and poured in more than was necessary, pulling a box of
matches from his shirt pocket and lighting three bunched together. Taking a
step back, he tossed the matches into the drum and watched as the orange flames
leapt high before settling into the confines of the drum where her clothes
shrivelled and charred.
'You don't need these any more,' he whispered. 'They can't make you pretend any
more. You're home now, Sam. You're home.'
7
When Sean arrived back at the office it was approaching six thirty p.m., but
the place was busier than usual for a Friday evening. Clearly a fair number of
his team were still hoping to salvage some kind of a weekend, even if in their
hearts they knew any real chance of spending time with friends or family had
long since gone and they'd end up settling for a couple of hours in the local
pub before beating their weary way home. He caught Donnelly's eye as he passed
his desk. 'Guv'nor,' Donnelly acknowledged him.
'Looking forward to another relaxing weekend at home with the wife and kids?'
Sean asked ironically.
Donnelly shrugged and gave a low laugh. 'At home with the wife and kids? I'd
rather be here telling people what to do than be there being told what to do.'
Sean raised his eyebrows and kept walking until Sally stepped in front of him.
'There's someone in your office to see you,' she said quietly. 'Featherstone
dropped her off a couple of hours ago.'
Sean looked towards his own office and saw the back of a woman's head. She was
sitting in one of the chairs he kept for his frequent visitors.
'Who is she?'
'I don't know,' said Sally. 'I haven't spoken to her.'
'Does anyone know who she is?'
Sally shrugged and walked away, leaving Sean to look around the office
accusingly at the faces turning from him and forming secretive huddles. Whoever
she was, he sensed she was bad news. He strode towards his office, entering
with far more of a performance than usual, throwing his raincoat across his
desk and emptying his heavy pockets on to it, waiting for the woman to make the
first move. Carefully placing the case report she'd been reading on the floor
next to her chair, she got to her feet, hand outstretched.
'Anna Ravenni-Ceron. Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan, I presume.' He accepted
her hand, holding it softly for a second before releasing it, studying her
brown eyes, which were magnified by the small, heavy-framed designer glasses
she wore. Her dark skin betrayed her Mediterranean origins as surely as her
name, as did her almost black hair, which he suspected was long and curly,
although she'd done her best to hide the fact by pinning it in a bundle on top
of her head, leaving her fine-boned face clear. She wore a fitted blue cotton
blouse, unbuttoned just enough to reveal her modest cleavage, and a
slim-fitting grey knee-length skirt that showed her pleasantly wide hips as
they tapered into a small waist. Temporarily disarmed by her attractiveness, he
sat on the edge of his desk.
'If you're looking for DI Corrigan, then yes, you've found him. Please, have a
seat.' He watched her smoothing her skirt out as she sat back down. 'So what
can I do for you, Miss ... sorry, I--'
'Anna Ravenni-Ceron and it's Mrs, but please, just call me Anna.'
'OK, Anna, what can I do for you?'
'It was my understanding that you would be expecting me. Superintendent
Featherstone assured me he'd informed you that I would be assisting with the
investigation.' Recognizing the blank expression on Sean's face, she added,
'I'm the criminal psychiatrist who's been assigned to help profile the man who
kidnapped Louise Russell. I gather there's reason to believe he's also
responsible for the murder of another woman.'
'Karen Green,' he said, the coolness returning to his voice now he understood
who she was. Cops didn't like outsiders sticking their noses into police
business. 'The woman he murdered - her name was Karen Green.'
'Yes, that was in the file.' She indicated the dossier she had been reading. 'A
very interesting case, and I think I already have some suggestions about the
suspect. I believe he ...' Sean held his hand up to stop her.
'I'm sure you've got better things to do on a Friday night than sit around here
with a bunch of grizzly old detectives. Please, take the file home with you and
study it over the weekend, and then if you still think you can help, by all
means pop back in on Monday and let me know what you've found.'
'Actually I'd rather make a start right away.'
'You don't have to do that,' said Sean. 'Monday will be fine.' A silence hung
between them while she considered her next move.
'By then it could be too late,' she insisted. 'For Louise Russell and perhaps
you too.'
'Don't waste your time worrying about me.'
'I'm not.'
'Then go home and study your file.'
'As I said, I'd rather stay here, close to the investigation, where I can be of
most use.'
'Anna, I have two, three days, maybe less, before Louise Russell becomes his
second victim. I'm sorry, but I don't have time to explain the ins and outs of
a murder investigation to a layman.'
'I've studied many murder investigations, Inspector. I'm not a total layman.'
'Is that why you're here? So you can tell everyone you've got your hands dirty
with a real murder investigation, instead of just studying one second-hand?'
'No.'
'Then why are you here?'
'To help.'
'To help how? How many murder investigations have you been involved with,
exactly?'
'None. But I've conducted extensive interviews with many convicted murderers,
including a study of some of Broadmoor's most troubled patients.'
'Really?' Sean asked, impressed despite himself. 'Like who?'
'Like Sebastian Gibran,' she answered. 'One of yours, I believe.'
'One of mine?' Sean repeated. 'I wouldn't call him that.'
'No,' she agreed. 'I was invited to examine him as part of his psychological
assessment, to see if he was fit to stand trial.'
'And you decided he wasn't.'
'Yes.'
'You were wrong.'
'Sebastian was clearly suffering from a deep-rooted personality disorder, his
psychopathic traits and complete inability to form meaningful relationships
with people were obvious from the start. His marriage, relationships at work,
even those with his parents and siblings were an act: he was merely portraying
the person they wanted to him to be, while in fact he was living out an
incredibly well-formed and detailed fantasy life from a very early age. He was
clearly incapable of truly understanding his own trial, in the context of
grasping the real-life implications it could have held for him.'
'He's bad,' Sean told her, 'not mad. He had every advantage in life, yet he
chose to do what he did. He chose to do it.'
'If you mean he didn't have the typical background for a serial killer, then
you're right. He doesn't appear to have been abused as a child or to have
suffered any particularly traumatic incident that could have affected him
adversely in later life. On the face of it, he was very successful and
intelligent, but the fact remains he clearly has a psychotic social behavioural
disorder.'
'He pulled the wool over your eyes,' Sean jeered. 'He did to you what he's
spent his entire life doing - he told you what you wanted to hear and showed
you only what he wanted you to see, made himself an interesting psychiatric
case for the experts to pore over. What better way to keep himself out of
prison? And now all he has to do is wait until he feels the time is right to
pass all your blunt tests, leaving you with no choice but to declare him sane.
Then what happens?'
'He'll stand trial for his crimes.'
'And use all the evidence you and your colleagues have amassed about his state
of mind at the time to prove he can't be held accountable for his actions on
the grounds of diminished responsibility. And then he walks free. True?'
'I don't know,' she answered truthfully, never looking away from him. 'I'm not
an expert when it comes to the judicial system. My job is to provide clinical
assessments. I don't get involved in the moral or legal judgements.'
'I wish I had that luxury.' Sean was silent for a moment before continuing:
'Listen, it's like this - I've never met a psychiatrist or read a psychiatric
report about an offender that told me anything I wouldn't expect any of my
detectives to be able to tell me.'
'I really believe I can help you.'
'I don't think so.'
'Well, at the end of the day it doesn't matter what you think, does it?'
'Meaning?'
She reached for the briefcase at the side of her chair and pulled an opened
letter from inside, handing it to Sean. 'That's a letter from your assistant
commissioner in charge of serious crime, instructing you to ensure that I have
unrestricted access to all matters relating to this investigation, including
forensic evidence and interviews with suspects. I will of course not be
permitted knowledge of the use of existing covert human intelligent sources or
the deployment of undercover officers, although any thoughts I have about how
the undercover officer or officers may best infiltrate the offender or
offenders would be expected to be fully explained to them, by you.'
Sean scanned the letter without reading it properly, sure everything she said
was true. He folded it up, sighing and shaking his head slightly and handed it
back to her. 'Fine,' he said. 'Just one thing.'
'What would that be?'
'Don't ask me questions I don't have time to answer. Keep your mouth shut and
your eyes and ears open. Learn through observation not interrogation. You keep
up or you get left behind - understand?'
'Yes. Thank you.'
'Thank you? Thank me for what?' Donnelly and Zukov appeared at his door before
she could answer. Sean could tell by their faces they were excited. 'Something
wrong?' he asked them.
'Paulo here's dug up a possible suspect you might want to take a look at,'
Donnelly explained.
'Speak up, Paulo,' Sean encouraged.
'I did what you suggested, guv'nor, and searched the local intelligence records
for anyone with previous for serious sexual offences and burglary artifice. You
were right - it turns out to be a very unusual mix. I only got one hit: Jason
Lawlor, male, IC1, forty-two years old, loads of previous for theft, assault,
burglary, commercial and residential and serious sexual offences. But it was
his previous convictions involving the use of artifice to gain entry that set
him apart.'
'But has he ever used it to get into a house and then sexually assaulted the
occupier?'
'Yeah,' Zukov answered, 'his last conviction. He did six years for burglary and
sexual assault and was only released three months ago from Belmarsh, but he's
failed to show up for his last two bail signing dates and he's also missed his
last two Sexual Offenders' Register appointments. As of now, he's on the run.'
'Excuse me,' Ravenni-Ceron tentatively interrupted them. 'Sorry, it's just that
the file on this case said the suspect apparently has no convictions, whereas
this man has many.'
Zukov and Donnelly both looked at Sean.
'Don't make assumptions,' he told her. 'Funny things can happen to fingerprints
- trust me, I know. And we also have to consider the possibility our suspect is
not working alone. Perhaps this Lawlor character's made himself a friend who
has no convictions. Maybe this friend does the grabbing and Lawlor does the
rest.'
'I don't think so,' she argued. 'The psychological profile of the man we're
after is already clearly indicating he's a loner, acting out some highly
personal fantasy. It doesn't make sense that he could be working with a
partner.'
'Truth is, we don't really know that - and nor will we until we arrest this
Lawlor and drag him across the cobbles. Once we've done that we'll have a
better understanding.'
'For the record, I disagree.'
'Noted,' said Sean, his feelings towards her a mixture of admiration for her
courage in speaking up and irritation at her interference.
'And it doesn't seem to me you have any evidence to justify his arrest.'
'That won't be a problem,' Donnelly joined in. 'He's wanted for jumping bail.
We can arrest him any time we like.'
'Do we have an address for him?' Sean asked.
'Only his bail address - 3 Canal Walk, Sydenham,' Zukov answered.
'That's a couple of miles from where Louise Russell was taken,' Sean pointed
out.
'Same for Karen Green,' Donnelly added.
'Have the locals checked out the address?' Sean asked.
'No,' said Zukov. 'Apparently they're too busy to chase after bail offenders.'
'And sexual predators who fail to make their Sexual Register appointments?'
Sean continued.
'They didn't have anything to say about that,' said Zukov.
'I bet they didn't,' Donnelly sneered. 'Fucking clowns.'
'I'm not interested in what they did or didn't do,' Sean put an end to the
criticism. 'The fact is, if they haven't checked the address then there's a
chance he may still be using it. What sort of place is it?' He looked at Zukov.
'A bedsit in a big old Victorian house. A number of the other bedsits are also
used as bail addresses.'
'Bollocks.' Sean shook his head, thought for a moment. 'OK, we can't risk
putting his door in, case he's not home. His bail house buddies will be
straight on the phone to him and we'll never see him there again. So we plot it
up and wait for him to show.'
'Do you want me to get hold of Featherstone and get some surveillance
authorized?' Donnelly asked.
'No, we don't have time. Grab Sally and whoever else you can find. We'll do it
ourselves. As soon as we see him, we'll take him out. Nothing fancy or
complicated - nick him, spin his room and then back here to interview him. All
right, let's go.'
Donnelly and Zukov headed for the main office while Sean started to pull his
raincoat on and fill his pockets with phones, handcuffs, CS gas and anything
else he thought he'd be needing. Then he looked up to see Anna imitating his
actions. 'You're not actually thinking about coming with us?'
'As the letter from the assistant commissioner states, I'm to be given
unrestricted access and assistance. If this is your man - although I personally
don't believe it is - then I need to see how he reacts to being arrested. I
need to see where and how he lives.'
Sean pursed his lips and let out a long sigh. 'Have it your own way. But, like
I said - keep up or get left behind. I don't have time to wait for you.
Understand?'
'Don't worry about me, Inspector. I'm a big girl.'
'Really? Well, I guess we'll find out soon enough, won't we, Anna. I just hope
you have more of a clue about what you're letting yourself in for than I think
you do.'
He was charging through the main office in the direction of the car park before
she could answer.
Thomas Keller sat at his kitchen table and tried to stay calm, but he was too
agitated. He got up and began to pace around the room looking for things to do,
but it was no use, the excitement of having her so close overrode everything
else. The memory of soft, warm skin made his entire body ripple and shiver with
pleasure, but he cursed the ugly desires it stirred in his stomach and groin
that threatened to destroy the beauty of the thing that existed between them.
He had to go to the cellar, there was something he needed to do concerning the
other woman, but he was afraid to go while the excitement gripped him, afraid
of what it might make him do.
Suddenly the solution came to him. He hurried along the narrow corridor to his
bedroom, coming to a halt in front of the cupboard where he kept his special
treasures. Tentatively he reached for the handle, checking first to make sure
that he was alone, that there were no intruders lurking in the shadows. He
eased the drawer open carefully, savouring the moment, allowing the
anticipation to rise slowly, the expectation making his muscles begin to
tighten and coil, his eyes darting from side to side as the bundles of letters
revealed themselves, each held together by an elastic band. His swelling penis
grew uncomfortable in his trousers as he searched for the letters addressed to
Deborah Thomson. Reverently he undid the bundle and laid each item neatly on
his unmade bed. To him this mundane collection of invoices and bank statements
held a significance that seemed almost mystical; just by running his fingers
over the letters spelling out her name he felt he could absorb something of
her, feel her life flowing into his own. While his left hand rested on the
letters, moving from one to another, his right hand slid slowly to his
trousers, its fingers fumbling awkwardly at the button and the zip, the urgency
to release himself increasing with every passing second, until at last he felt
his engorged penis fall into the palm of his hand. But as he began to stroke
his hand back and forth, other thoughts began to invade his mind - thoughts of
the other woman, the one who'd tried to fool him - the one who'd betrayed him,
her face large and distorted as she laughed at him. Then more faces joined her,
circling him, pointing and laughing: the face of Karen Green, taunting him for
his stupidity, telling everyone how she'd fooled him into believing she was
Sam; and the faces of the men from his sorting office, jeering, swearing at
him, telling him he was a filthy queer. He felt his penis shrinking in his
hand, withering to nothing.
'Leave me alone!' he screamed into the empty room. 'Go away. Just leave me
alone.' But the faces wouldn't leave him. They kept spinning around him. Among
them he could see the faces of his mother and the staff at the orphanage, the
teachers who'd hated him and abused him. Self-consciously he struggled to zip
up his trousers, but the faces were growing arms and hands which were pointing
now at his pathetic, shrunken manhood. He tried to swat them away, but they
danced out of his reach, their laughter reaching a crescendo as he used both
arms to pull his precious letters close to his chest, protecting them from the
phantoms.
Bitter tears stung his eyes and cheeks, the humiliation that had replaced
desire giving way to rage. He'd make them sorry for laughing at him, for
belittling him. He'd make them all pay, especially her. Abandoning the letters,
he jumped to his feet and ran to the cupboard where he kept his stun-gun and
the keys to the cellar. He threw open the back door and staggered out into the
yard, swiping tears and mucus from his face, his teeth clenched in anger as he
made his way to the cellar door. His movements became more fluid now that his
purpose was clear, as if his fury were guiding him as he undid the lock and
yanked the door open so hard it clattered into the wall and bounced closed.
Again he pulled it open and stood for a moment at the top of the stairs,
staring down into the semi-darkness, breathing hard. Then he moved down the
stairs, steadily, purposefully, the tasks ahead clear to him. He rounded the
bottom of the stairs and pulled the light cord, watching Louise Russell scuttle
into the furthest corner of her cage, her red eyes wild with loathing and fear.
He walked to her cage and opened the hatch on the side.
'Take the clothes off and put them through the hatch,' he ordered. 'Do it now.'
Louise crossed her arms across her chest, gripping the blouse and sweater,
refusing to surrender these last remnants of decency. 'Please,' she begged him.
'You can keep the underwear,' he said, 'but I need everything else.'
'Please,' she repeated, 'I'll do whatever you want, but please, let me keep the
clothes. You gave them to me, remember? You told me they were my real clothes,
that I needed to wear them for you, for us.'
He held a hand up to stop her. 'Just give me the clothes.'
'Please. You don't want to do this, I know you don't.'
'Give me the fucking clothes,' he screamed. 'Give me the fucking clothes, you
lying whore.' She shook at the ferocity of his attack, pulling her knees up to
her chest as if they were a shield, the hate in his eyes telling her he would
not relent. Slowly she began to pull the sweater off, sobbing uncontrollably
all the while. She passed it through the hatch to him, jumping back as soon as
he took the item, unsure of what to remove next, the blouse or the skirt.
'Hurry up,' he demanded. She turned her back to him and began to undo the
buttons of the blouse, her tears slowing as fear was replaced by humiliation
and embarrassment, everyday emotions finding their way into her extraordinary
situation. The blouse slipped from her shoulders and she passed it through the
hatch, her left arm pressed across her chest, head bowed to avoid his leering
face as she kneeled and unzipped the waist of her skirt, pulling it over her
hips and down to her knees, adjusting herself into a sitting position before
removing it completely and passing it through the hatch, his hands greedily
grasping it, tugging it away.
As she hugged herself in the corner of her cage she looked up to see him moving
around to the door of her prison, pulling the key from his pocket and easing it
into the lock, opening the door and stooping into her space, the stun-gun held
out in front of him as he inched towards her like a scorpion readying to
strike. 'You shouldn't have betrayed me. That was a mistake. You're just a
little whore trying to make me do things to you - dirty things, bad things.
Well now you're going to get what you want, whore. I'm going to give you
exactly what you want.'
Sally and Sean sat in the front of the unmarked car they'd concealed as best
they could in a residents' parking area about forty metres from the house where
Jason Lawlor was supposed to be living. If they parked any further away they
wouldn't be able to recognize him when he arrived, but if they parked any
closer he would almost certainly spot them and probably take flight. Several of
the local low-lives had already paid them some unwanted attention. A small
intelligence record photograph of Lawlor rested on Sean's thigh. Anna sat in
the back of the silent car, while Donnelly and Zukov were close by in another,
as were DCs Maggie O'Neil and Stan-the-man McGowan.
The dilapidated old house backed on to the railway lines, the sound of passing
trains only adding to the sense of foreboding as they watched the streetlights
flickering on in the dusk, making the surrounding trees appear quite black.
'He's going to be difficult to spot,' Sally stated, 'in this light, from this
distance.'
'There's enough light around the entrance to the house,' Sean argued without
looking away from the front door. 'If he turns up, I'll recognize him.'
Sally shrugged and the car returned to its silent vigil. After a few minutes
Sally spoke again, to break the increasingly oppressive atmosphere as much as
anything. 'You're Anna Ravenni-Ceron, aren't you?' she said, looking into the
back of the car. 'I recognized you from the picture on your book cover.'
'Which book?' Anna asked with a smile.
'Your latest one, I think.'
'Programmed to Kill?'
'Yeah,' Sally answered. 'I thought it was good. You talked a lot of sense.'
Sean shifted uncomfortably in his seat and for a passing second considered
telling Sally that the woman she was talking to was in part responsible for
Gibran worming his way out of a trial for her attempted murder.
'Thank you,' said Anna. 'It's always good to get positive feedback from someone
who actually deals with the sort of people I write about.'
'Until I read your book I hadn't realized most serial killers stay within their
own ethnic group when selecting their victims.'
'I'm glad you could learn something new from it.'
Sean could listen to no more.
'Anna Ravenni-Ceron - is that your real name, or something you thought would
help sell a few more copies?' he asked, only turning to look at her after he
finished his question.
'I write books to try to educate people, not to make money.'
'So you give the profits to charity then?' he sneered, facing forward again.
She didn't answer.
'Over there,' Sally suddenly said, 'other side of the street. It could be our
man.'
Sean strained to see through the slightly misted windscreen. 'That's him.'
'How can you be so sure?' Sally asked.
'I just am. The way he moves, stands. The way he's looking around. It's him.'
'He knows we're here,' Sally said. 'He can sense us.'
'Wait, he's crossing the road. Let's do it.' Sean lifted the radio that had
been hidden between his legs and spoke as clearly as he could into it. 'Suspect
One's at the address, everybody move in, move in.' He started the engine and
pulled away as quietly as he could, keeping the revs low as he closed the short
distance to the man who had now crossed the road and was approaching the front
door of the house. As they got nearer Sean suddenly accelerated then braked
hard to stop directly outside the house. The other cars hadn't arrived yet.
Sean jumped from the car, leaving the radio on his seat and pulling his warrant
card from his jacket. Lawlor looked like a startled deer caught in the
headlights of an approaching truck, his eyes frozen wide open and nostrils
flared as he assessed the danger, his legs tense and ready to sprint.
'Police. Stay where you are!' Sean shouted, his warrant card held in front of
him. Lawlor looked one way then the other, before suddenly jumping over the low
wall at the side of the staircase that led to the door. He sprinted across the
paved garden and leap-frogged another low wall, hitting the pavement running
smoothly and powerfully. Sean reacted quickly, but not quickly enough to cut
him off before he'd reached the open pavement. Both men tore off along the
darkening, empty road, their legs and arms pumping, Sean desperately hoping
their race would be no more than a short sprint before Lawlor gave in.
Sally and Anna got out of the car just in time to see the men disappear around
the first corner and into an alleyway.
'Shit,' Sally shouted as the other two unmarked cars screeched to a stop next
to her, the detectives spilling out. 'He's run, he's run,' she told them
frantically. 'The guv'nor's gone after him, but he's got no radio.'
'Where?' Donnelly shouted.
'Down the alley.'
Donnelly turned to the younger, lighter detectives. 'Go on then. What you
waiting for? Off you go.' Zukov and the two detectives broke into a hesitant
run, staying close to each other as they jogged along the road and disappeared
into the alley. He noticed Sally subconsciously clutching her chest. 'You all
right?'
'Yes,' she replied, a little breathlessly. 'I should have gone after him. I
should have stayed with the guv'nor.'
'And then the rest of us wouldn't have had any idea where you were or what had
happened.'
'I would have taken a radio,' she argued.
'Don't worry,' he assured her. 'The others will catch up with him.'
'No they won't - and I don't think he wants them to.'
Sean's raincoat trailed behind him like broken wings as he burst from the
alley. Lawlor was only a few metres ahead, never once looking over his shoulder
- years of running from the police had taught him that could be a costly
mistake. They ran straight across the emerging road, causing a passing car to
judder to a stop, its horn blaring as the two figures disappeared into another
alley and faded into the darkness.
Halfway along the alley Lawlor suddenly leapt to his side, hitting a six-foot
fence and scrambling over it like a cat a second before Sean's hands could
grasp his ankle. 'Bastard,' he muttered, launching himself at the fence, his
upper-body strength dragging him over just in time to see Lawlor straddle the
fence on the opposite side of the garden. Now that they'd left the roads and
alleyways, Sean knew he was on his own; the chasing pack would have no idea
where he'd gone. He felt his ankle almost give way as he landed on hard grass,
relieved it was only a fleeting pain as he sprinted across the lawn and jumped
at the fence, clearing it more smoothly than he had the last. Remembering to
roll as he hit the grass on the other side, he sprang back to his feet in one
motion, cursing the raincoat that continually threatened to trip him as he
struggled to see clearly in the ever-increasing darkness. Lawlor had already
cleared the next fence, using a garden bench to vault it, the distance between
the two men remaining the same. Sean maintained his pace as his foot hit the
bench while his left hand helped him clear it, but this time it wasn't grass
that waited for him, it was paving slabs, slippery with winter moss and
moisture from the cooling air. His right foot gave way under him and he hit the
ground hard, his shoulder and hip taking the blow, his forehead connecting with
the leg of a cast-iron table, forcing him to call out in pain as he pressed his
hand to where he knew he'd been cut, feeling warm, slippery blood escaping from
the wound.
'Come here,' he yelled after Lawlor, quickly back on his feet and moving across
the garden, heaving himself over yet another fence, breathing hard and heavy
now.
At first he could see nothing in the twilight, but where his eyes betrayed him
his hearing came to the rescue: Lawlor had changed direction, heading for the
end of the garden instead of traversing. Sean could hear the sound of feet
scuffing against the higher fence as Lawlor struggled to pull himself over,
fatigue beginning to override his fear and adrenalin. His own anger and the
pain from his bleeding head and bruised shoulder drove him on, flooded his body
with hormones that pushed him forward despite the burning in his brain and
muscles. He hit the back fence just as Lawlor snaked across and landed on the
other side with a thud, his footsteps heading away. Sean's hands grabbed the
top of the fence as he jumped from a standing position, pulling and scrambling
until he was able to hook a leg over and roll on to the other side, but the
fall was much further than he'd expected as the ground fell away from the backs
of the houses.
Suddenly he heard a tremendous noise screaming up behind him. As he turned to
see what it was, a dazzling beam of light came bearing down on him like an
exploding star. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he braced himself for the
sound and light to send him to oblivion, stumbling backwards, tripping and
falling, until he saw the train crashing past, its passengers oblivious to the
drama only inches away as the whistle screamed in alarm. He rolled further from
the tracks, pushing reflections of near death aside as he scrambled back to his
feet and scanned the trackside for Lawlor. The lights of the train picked him
out no more than twenty metres ahead and Sean took off after him with
increasing determination, already looking forward to the moment when he'd be
kneeling on Lawlor's back, twisting his shoulders and snapping on the
quick-cuffs.
The train receded into the distance, leaving behind an eerie silence as Sean
chased the shadow in front of him, concentrating on his running, maintaining a
short powerful stride, arms pumping like pistons, occasionally flailing to the
side when he slipped on the large pieces of loose gravel that ran alongside the
tracks and between sleepers.
The darkness was almost total now, but then a spot of light appeared in the far
distance, approaching slowly and silently at first. As it grew larger and
louder, its speed seemed to increase tenfold and then tenfold more until it was
a meteor hurtling towards them. Sean looked down at the darkness under his feet
and assured himself that the approaching train would pass him safely by on the
parallel set of tracks, but as it grew dangerously close he realized it had
been disguising another sound, a rumbling and humming from the tracks he was
running along. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a second light heading
towards them, moving slower than the other, but still capable of bringing
instant death to anyone who got in its way.
Sean knew he should stop, give up the chase and let Lawlor escape, hunt him
down another day, but once he was after his man his police instincts took over,
instincts that had been drummed into him since his first day on the force. To
lose a suspect was the greatest of sins. So he resolved to keep going - keep
going until he had Lawlor under his heel or lost him to the darkness of the
night. He wouldn't give up the chase, no matter what.
The silhouette of Lawlor kept moving steadily forward, but Sean could see he
was tiring as he kept losing his footing, teetering to one side and then the
other, his arms jutting out to keep his balance or break his fall, and all the
time the lights from in front and behind continued to converge on the two men.
Soon Sean would be close enough to kick Lawlor's legs from under him and end
the chase. But just as the train coming towards them was almost level with
Lawlor, he burst across the tracks, his silhouette perfectly framed by the
approaching light, and jumped clear less than a second before one hundred tons
of metal moving at sixty miles per hour hurtled through the space he'd leapt
from.
Despite the close proximity of the slower train behind him and the speed of the
train in front of him, Sean could think of only one thing: unless he went now,
Lawlor would be lost - and God knew when he'd surface again. Without looking
over his shoulder, he crossed the first set of tracks, the reverberation
vibrating the muscles in his legs, the lights so close they cast his shadow
long and far, stretching it further with every fraction of a second, until he
leapt to the second set of tracks, closing his eyes as he ran.
When he landed on the grass bank he was temporarily blinded and deafened by the
noise and light of the train. Disorientated, almost confused to find himself
still alive, he tried to work out which direction he was lying in. Along the
tracks he saw a shadow stumbling down the grassy bank into the darkness below.
He jumped to his feet and sprinted diagonally down the bank, closer and closer
to his target until finally he threw himself headfirst across the remaining
distance between them and brought Lawlor to the ground with a thud.
Sean pressed Lawlor's face into the wet grass and held him there while he got
his breath back. 'I told you to stand still, didn't I?'
Lawlor twisted his head so he could talk and breathe, trying to spit out the
pieces of grass that stuck to the saliva gluing his lips, his voice broken and
disjointed. 'I ... I didn't know ... who, who you ... were, guv'nor.'
'Bullshit,' Sean panted. 'You may not know who I am, but you know what I am.'
'I didn't, guv'nor, honest. I thought you was ... vigilantes. I swear, if I'd
known ... you was Old Bill, I'd never have run.'
'Fucking bollocks. You ran for a reason!'
'No, guv'nor. I'm clean, I swear on my fucking eyes. I've been clean since I
got out.'
'Then why d'you miss your bail signing?'
'What?'
'Your bailing signing and your Sex Offenders' Register appointment?' Sean
repeated, seething with impatience, the excitement of the chase still pumping
through his body.
'I was drunk. That's all. I went out and I got pissed and missed my bail
signing. After that I knew I'd be wanted so I tried to keep out the way. That's
all, I promise. I swear.'
'You're lying,' Sean spat at him. 'You missed them because you had better
things to do, didn't you?'
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'Don't lie to me. You were searching for them, weren't you, looking for the
right ones?'
'I'm clean. I've done nothing.'
'And when you found them, you took them, didn't you? You took them, you raped
them and you killed them?'
Lawlor looked as confused as he did scared, his head furiously shaking in
disagreement with everything Sean was saying. 'I don't have a fucking clue what
you're talking about. You're fucking crazy.'
'Are you working with someone else?' Sean persisted. 'Does he take them for you
and then you do the rest? Don't you have the guts to take them yourself?' He
pressed Lawlor's face hard into the grass, pulling one of his arms back and
twisting it until he grimaced and groaned with pain while he looked all around
the surrounding area, searching for any CCTV cameras British Transport Police
might have deployed in an attempt to catch vandals and perverts. Once he
decided there were none, he rolled Lawlor on to his back and gripped him around
the neck one-handed, tightly enough to make him wheeze as he tried to draw
breath. 'I asked you a question.'
'You're mad,' Lawlor struggled to say. 'You've got the wrong man.'
'Where do you keep them, once you've taken them? Where do you keep them?'
'Keep who?'
Sean looked at the silent, still darkness around them. They were alone. He
squeezed Lawlor's neck harder and raised his other hand high and to the side.
Resisting the temptation to turn his open hand into a clenched fist, he brought
it down with a violent swipe into Lawlor's face, the sound of the slap echoing
in the empty night. 'Answer my questions,' he hissed.
Lawlor struggled to escape, but Sean's powerful grip held him in place like a
live fish waiting to be gutted. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'
Another slap resounded along the grass bank. 'Who are you? What do you want?'
Lawlor screamed as loud as he could through his constricted airway.
'Answers,' Sean told him.
'I don't have any.'
'Where's Louise Russell?'
'Who?' Another slap twisted his face.
'Who has her?'
'Please, wait.' Both men stopped for a few silent seconds as Lawlor searched
for air and answers. 'You're talking about the man who's already killed one,
right? It was on Crimewatch, yeah?'
'Yes.' Sean spoke through angry gritted teeth, his hand ready to strike
Lawlor's sweating, reddening face. 'You know something. Tell me what you know.'
'That's the point - I don't know anything. Nobody knows anything.'
Sean's face contorted in confusion. 'Nobody knows anything - what does that
mean?'
'This one's working alone. Keeping himself to himself, saying nothing, sharing
nothing. No Facebook, no Twitter, no YouTube. He doesn't want to share. This is
just for him.'
'Who would he share with?'
'You're Old Bill, you know. We meet in prison, on the segregation wings. When
we recognize each other, we share. But not this one. He gives us nothing and
nobody recognizes his work. No one knows him, I swear. You're looking for
someone who's never been caught.'
'Or someone who's only just started,' he said to himself, but Lawlor heard him.
'Yes,' Lawlor whispered excitedly. 'Yes. Someone new. Someone who's only just
started. Of course. Of course. How did you know?'
'What?' Sean asked, distracted by his own thoughts.
'How did you know?'
'Shut the fuck up.' Sean felt his hand tightening around Lawlor's throat, the
pain and panic spreading across his face, the power to kill or spare him
totally within his control. It was a good feeling, potent and thrilling.
Lawlor's hands clutched at his wrists, trying to release the grip on his
throat, but it was too strong. His legs began to kick and splay, his body
twisting and writhing, but Sean fell on his chest with one knee, sinking deep
into his diaphragm.
Then sounds came, voices calling to each other from the grassy bank, torchlight
stroking the gently swaying uncut grass, dark figures approaching. Lawlor's
eyes darted between the descending shadows and Sean's black, lifeless eyes, as
if trying to draw his attention to the only thing that could save him. Finally
Sean's subconscious rage acknowledged the fact they had been disturbed by
voices he recognized - Donnelly, Zukov and others too. His fingers began to
loosen around Lawlor's thin neck, turning his lips from a whitish-blue to pale
pink, flecks of spittle spiralling through the air as he coughed his lungs
full, made silver by the light from the closing torches.
Sean rolled him over on to his stomach and pulled his arms behind his back,
smoothly wrapping the handcuffs around his wrists. 'Get up,' he ordered and
hoisted him to his feet.
Donnelly was the first to reach them, years of experience telling him something
was wrong. He looked from Sean to Lawlor and back. 'Everything OK?'
'Everything's fine,' said Sean, shoving Lawlor towards him. 'Arrest him for the
abduction and murder of Karen Green and the abduction and false imprisonment of
Louise Russell.'
'Any evidence?'
'Yes,' Sean replied. 'He ran.'
'He's gone fucking mad,' Lawlor said, speaking loud enough to ensure everyone
heard him. 'He tried to kill me - look at my fucking neck. He was gonna kill
me.'
'Shut up and get moving,' growled Donnelly. 'You've only got yourself to blame.
You know better than to run from the police.'
'But I ain't done nothing.'
'Well, well,' Donnelly said, 'an innocent man! And I thought I was the last of
that dying breed.'
'Whatever,' Lawlor replied. 'Do what you got to do, just keep that maniac away
from me. I'll tell you anything you want to know, but keep him away from me.'
Sally and Anna watched as Donnelly frogmarched Lawlor towards the waiting cars,
flanked by DCs O'Neil and McGowan, Sean and Zukov walking behind them. The
streetlights made them all look jaundiced. Donnelly manhandled Lawlor into the
back of his car, pushing the top of his head down with his hand and slamming
the door. Sally noticed the serious faces, the usual signs of relief and
joviality after an arrest conspicuous by their absence.
'Everything all right?' she asked Donnelly.
'Aye,' he answered. 'We eventually found them on the other side of the railway
embankment. Everyone's OK.'
'That's not what I meant.' Donnelly glanced towards Sean and rolled his eyes.
She grabbed his forearm. 'I should have been there. I should have come with
you, not stayed here hiding with the cars.'
'No, you shouldn't have,' he insisted. 'You're not ready yet. Don't try to rush
it, you'll do more damage than good. Take your time. It'll come.'
'All the same--'
'Sally,' Sean interrupted her, 'I want you, Maggie and Stan to spin his bedsit.
If you find anything interesting, get hold of forensics and keep me informed.
Dave, you and Paulo get this idiot back to Peckham and book him into custody.
I'll interview him later.' Sally and Donnelly nodded their understanding.
'I'd like to come with you,' Anna said, appearing at his shoulder. 'To help you
to prepare and do the interview.'
'Out of the question,' he replied. 'Go with Sally and search the bedsit if you
want to be involved. Look through his things and see what you can learn.'
'But the letter from the assistant commissioner clearly states--' Sean held his
hand up to stop her.
'I don't have time to discuss this with the committee,' he snapped. 'We can
talk about it later.' He turned his back on her and walked to his car. She took
a step after him, but Sally caught her arm and gently pulled her back, shaking
her head.
'Let it go,' she said softly. 'Now is not the time to fight this battle.'
'Is he always this rude?'
'Only if he likes you,' Sally told her.
Deborah Thomson's eyes opened slowly before surrendering to the fog of
chloroform and flickering shut, then bursting wide open again as her brain
deciphered the hazy images it had been sent, recognizing danger and the need to
fire the body alert. Her head and torso jerked in all directions, desperately
trying to make sense of the near-darkness that surrounded her, her eyes growing
increasingly accustomed to the gloom. She felt the mattress beneath her and the
duvet on top of her rubbing against bare skin. She slid a hand tentatively
under the duvet and confirmed her worst fears, that her clothes had been taken.
Choking back tears of panic, she squinted into the darkness and cocked her head
to one side, listening for a sound, any sound. A shuffling noise somewhere in
the room made her freeze. She tried to focus on the source of the sound, but
something was obscuring her view. Slowly and carefully she stretched out a
hand, gently waving it from side to side, as if the thing she searched for was
more ethereal than solid, its distance away impossible to judge in the poor
light. Finally her fingers felt the unmistakeable cold of metal. Her fingers
coiled around thin steel as her face came closer to investigate, hundreds of
small squares spreading left and right, leading to more walls of squares and
above her the same terrible pattern. The fingers of her other hand grabbed at
the wire and gripped it hard as she realized what the squares were, that she
was locked in a cage.
Suddenly she found it difficult to breathe, the enforced confinement inducing
claustrophobia for the first time in her life. She began to shake the walls of
her prison, praying the structure would collapse and free her, but all she did
was prove to herself the solidity of her surrounds and the futility of
attempting escape. She released the wire and retreated to the corner of the
cage, pulling the duvet over her nakedness, giving in to tears of despair,
until a voice turned her to stone.
'Don't be frightened,' it said, 'you're not alone.' It was the voice of a
woman, quiet and gentle, unthreatening. 'My name's Louise. What's yours?' She
couldn't answer, her fear now mixed with shock and bewilderment. 'It's OK,' the
voice explained. 'He can't hear us, or at least I don't think he can. What's
your name?'
'Deborah. My name's Deborah. Why are we here? Who is he?' Her breaths were
coming fast and sharp as she tried to control her anxiety.
'I don't know,' Louise confessed, 'but he's dangerous. I think he may have ...'
'May have what?'
'Nothing. It doesn't matter. The important thing is that our only hope of
getting out of here is by working together.'
'How?' Deborah asked, barely able to comprehend the conversation she was having
with a stranger she couldn't even see properly. Two women locked in animal
cages planning their salvation.
'At first he'll treat you well.'
'You call this well?' she snapped.
Louise understood her anger and ignored her reaction. 'He'll let you out, to
use the toilet and wash. After a few days he'll even give you clean clothes.
Listen, when he comes down here, I think he leaves the door to wherever we are
open. It leads outside, I'm sure it does. I've seen the sunlight and smelled
the fresh air. When he gets you out of your cage--'
'This isn't my cage,' she snapped again, 'this is his cage. I'm locked in his
cage.'
'I'm sorry. You're right. When he lets you out of his cage, that's when you
have to do it.'
'Do what?'
'He's not very big or strong. He'll give you a tray with food on. Use that tray
to attack him and then get the key to my cage from his tracksuit trouser pocket
and let me out. Together we can overpower him and lock him in his own damn cage
and escape - call the police and lead them straight to the bastard.'
Deborah shook her head involuntarily. 'You're mad. It'll never work and then
it'll be worse for me.' She squinted as the other woman began to come into
focus, her similarity to herself painfully obvious, as was the fact she wore
only her underwear and had no mattress or covers. She looked like she had dark
patches on her face.
'Listen to me,' Louise urged her. 'I'm sorry, but you need to know. There was
another, before me. Her name was Karen Green. By the time he brought me here
she already looked like I do now. I sat in this cage and I watched him beat her
and rape her - and not just once. Then the night before he brought you, he took
her away. She never came back.'
'Oh my God, no. I read something about her in the papers. They found her in the
woods. She'd been strangled. He killed her. I have to get out of here. I have
to get out of here now.'
'You can't,' Louise insisted, her voice raised above Deborah's increasing
panic. 'Not yet. We have to work together.'
'No. I'll do what he wants. I'll make him think I like him,' she argued, 'and
he'll let me out of here and then when I see a chance I'll get away from him.
He's already killed somebody. If I attack him, he'll kill me too.'
'Look at me,' Louise insisted. 'I've tried all that, please believe me, I've
tried, but it makes no difference. I am what you will become. Nothing you do
can change that.'
'No.' Deborah refused to accept it. 'There must be a better way.'
'There isn't,' Louise answered, 'and unless you believe me, unless you do what
I tell you, we're both going to die. He'll kill us both.'
Shortly after eleven p.m. Sean and Sally prepared to begin the interview of
Jason Lawlor. Sean had wanted a woman present to try and make Lawlor as
uncomfortable as possible, so that he could read the signs he would be
unwittingly sending - guilt, remorse, excitement, ambivalence. Innocence?
Sally's heart had dropped when he'd asked her, but she'd managed not to show it.
Sean pressed the red button on the twin-cassette machine that would record the
interview. A loud, shrill buzzing sound filled the room for about five seconds,
followed by silence. Sean cleared his throat and took a breath before he began:
'I am Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan and the other officer present is ...'
Sally introduced herself. 'Detective Sergeant Sally Jones.'
'We are interviewing ... could you state your name for the tape, please?'
Lawlor spoke without looking at the recording machine, a sign he was a veteran
of taped police interviews. 'Jason Lawlor,' he answered, sounding bored already.
'Jason,' Sean continued, 'I must remind you that you are still under caution
and don't have to say anything unless you wish to do so, but if you fail to
mention something that you later rely on in court, an inference can be drawn
from that. Do you understand?'
Lawlor shrugged his shoulders.
'You need to tell me if you understand.'
'Yeah, I understand, OK?'
'You also have the right to free and independent legal advice. You have the
right to consult with a solicitor before, during or after this interview, and
this can be done in person or over the telephone, do you understand?'
'Yes.'
'So far you haven't asked to speak with a solicitor and you haven't consulted
with one and there are none present in the interview. Are you sure you want to
continue without one present?'
'I don't need a solicitor. I ain't done nothing.'
'Well, if you change your mind just let me know and I'll stop the interview and
arrange it, OK?'
'Whatever.'
'Fine. The date is Friday the seventh of April and the time is eleven oh five
p.m. I am now starting the interview. Jason, do you know why you're here?'
'Yeah, because you ain't got a clue who killed that woman so you thought you'd
stitch me up for it.'
Sean looked down at the table and then straight into Lawlor's eyes. 'You're
here because I believe you abducted Karen Green on the morning of Thursday the
thirtieth of March, and then killed her one week later. I also believe you've
abducted Louise Russell and that you're holding her against her will.'
'No you don't.'
'It's late and I'm tired,' Sean told him. 'I'm not here to play games, so why
don't you just answer my questions, OK?'
'You know I've got nothing to do with this.'
Sean let the oppressive silence hang for a while, guessing it would intimidate
Lawlor. 'You're a registered sex offender, aren't you, Jason?'
'What of it? I've done my time, paid my debt to society.' A sly smile spread
across his lips.
'But you haven't been signing on, have you? You've missed your last two
appointments.'
'So send me back to prison then. There's nothing for me outside anyway. You
think anyone's gonna give me a job or rent me a decent place to live? Course
they're fucking not. I'm better off inside.'
'Don't worry about that - you're going back inside. But right now I need to
know where you were the Thursday before last.'
'Eight days ago? I can't remember eight days ago. I was probably pissed
somewhere.'
'OK, try one day ago - last night, when Karen Green was taken into Three
Halfpenny Wood and killed - strangled to death. Where were you then?'
'I was pissed, in some pub in Sydenham.'
'Is that going to be your answer to everything, that you were pissed and can't
remember?'
'Probably.'
Sean leaned back in his chair, studying Lawlor, looking for a way in. 'The two
women who have been taken look the same: white, late twenties, slim, short
brown hair, attractive.' He saw a flicker of interest when he said attractive.
'They could have been sisters, twins even. Why is it important that they look
the same? Why is that important to you?'
'To me?' Lawlor snapped. 'No, not to me. I told you, this ain't got nothing to
do with me.'
'The woman we found, Karen Green, she'd been raped and sodomized. There was a
significant amount of semen in her. Whoever raped her didn't use a condom.'
'If you've got his spunk then check it for DNA and you'll know it's not me.'
'That takes time. I haven't got time. You need to answer my questions now.'
'I am answering your questions, but I don't know nothing!'
'Your last rape conviction, I looked it up. You didn't use a condom.'
'So?'
'That's pretty unusual for a rapist.' He emphasized rapist.
'Maybe.'
'And you used artifice to get into the house. You tricked her, told her you
were there to read her meter. We checked our records, Jason. You're the only
one in this area with form for using artifice.'
'So somebody's copying me. Maybe I told someone how well it worked. No need to
break in. No need to drag them into a car. I must have an admirer.'
'No use of a condom. Previous for using artifice to gain entry. Previous for
rape. Can't account for your movements when either woman was taken or for when
Karen Green's body was dumped. Failed to attend your registered sex offenders'
appointments. Things don't look good for you, Jason.'
'Do the fucking DNA tests,' Lawlor almost shouted. 'Why are you pissing around
with these stupid questions? It weren't me.'
'We will, Jason, don't worry. We'll do the tests and then you'll be dead in the
water and all your lies will be shown to be exactly that.'
'What are you talking about?'
'The crime you were convicted for - not using a condom was a pretty stupid
mistake, don't you think? Leaving us your DNA.'
'It wasn't a mistake, it was something I had to do.'
'What do you mean, "had to do"?'
'You're a man, you know what I mean.'
'No. No I don't.'
'Then what about you?' he asked Sally, who looked shocked at being suddenly
involved in the interview, as if she'd been awoken from her daydreaming.
Sean intervened. 'You should stick to answering questions,' he told Lawlor,
'and let me ask them. So I'll ask you again: why was it something you had to
do?'
'I needed to feel myself inside them. I needed to, you know, release myself
inside of them. I needed to feel myself come inside of them. It's like it makes
it last for days, you understand? If I use a Durex then I take myself with me
when it's over, but if I come inside them then I can smell them on me for days.
I can think about my come being still inside them days after and that helps me
... helps me control my needs.'
Sally felt as if she was going to be sick. She couldn't bring herself to look
into his face, her eyes wandering around the room, but never resting on Lawlor.
'And how does that make you feel?' Sean asked.
'It makes me feel good. It makes me feel really good.'
Sean could see Lawlor was reliving past experiences, his lips full and flushed
red with blood, his eyes wide as if he was watching himself committing his own
crimes with unbridled pleasure.
'Just good?' Sean wanted to pull him out of his trance, to keep him talking.
'No. Powerful. In control. It's like a drug from heaven - once you've had a
taste, there's no going back, no stopping. When you're inside them, you're
accepted, you understand? You're wanted. You're alive and you're loved, but
...' His excitement seemed to fade as fast as it had grown.
'But?' Sean encouraged.
'But, when it's over, you feel ashamed and embarrassed. You just want to tell
them you're sorry and to run away, to get as far away as you can. And the fear,
the fear is crushing, you know? It makes you feel weak, which is why the urges
come back, which is why you know you're going to do it again, to not feel
ashamed any more, to feel accepted and loved, even if it's only for a few
minutes.'
'Is that why you've changed the way you operate? Is that why you keep them for
days, so you can feel accepted for longer, loved for longer?'
'I've told you, I've got nothing to do with this. I would never kidnap anyone.
That takes planning. I never mean to do what I do. I just see someone and the
needs come back, I can't help myself. I follow them home, and if they're alone
I try to trick my way inside and then I do bad things. But I didn't take these
women - I've never taken any women - I never would.'
'Why?' Sally asked.
'I like doing it to them in their houses.' Somehow Sally managed to keep
looking him in the eyes, despite her disgust.
Sean studied the man in front of him, a scared opportunistic offender,
triggered by his surroundings, incapable of planning and forethought, the
complete opposite of the man who killed Karen Green and the man who would
undoubtedly kill Louise Russell, unless he could find him and stop him.
After a few seconds of silence Sean spoke. 'I've no more. Sally?'
She shook her head to clear her thoughts. 'No. No questions.'
'Is there anything you'd like to say, Jason, or to have me clarify for you?'
'No. Just make sure you get me back to Belmarsh in time for dinner tomorrow,
will you? It's cod and chips on Saturdays. I don't want to miss that.'
'Don't worry,' said Sean, 'you'll be back in time for your fish and chips. This
interview is concluded.' He pressed the off button to stop the recording and
leaned across the interview table putting his face close to Lawlor's. 'And I
hope you fucking choke on them.'
He stomped out of the interview room, closely followed by Sally. The on-duty
custody sergeant calling after them: 'What d'you want me to do with your
prisoner?'
'Put him back in his cell for the night. He'll be recalled to prison in the
morning.'
Once they were out of the busy custody area and in a quiet corridor, Sally
grabbed his arm and stopped him walking away. He spun to face her, knowing he
was about to be cross-examined himself.
'You knew he didn't do it, all along. As soon as Zukov told you about him you
knew he wasn't our man.'
'I had some doubts.'
'No you didn't. You knew it wasn't him.'
'He looked a decent suspect. We had to at least arrest and interview him.'
'Why?' Sally persisted. 'When you knew it wasn't him. We've just wasted an
entire evening chasing after the wrong man, and all the time you knew it.'
Sean pulled away from her as gently as he could and started walking. 'Jesus,
Sally, leave it alone, will you.'
'I'm trying to understand what's going on.'
'He was an arrest, wasn't he? That's what the top brass want to see - that
we're making arrests, progressing the investigation, that people are helping us
with our inquiries.'
'Not if we're arresting the wrong people.'
'Give me a break, Sally. They don't care what's going on as long as they've got
something to tell the media, as long as they've got something to build a load
of bullshit around. So Lawlor wasn't our man - who cares? He served a purpose.
By arresting him we've bought ourselves twenty-four hours of not being
interfered with, maybe more.'
Sally struggled to keep pace with him as they strode along the corridor. Again
she took hold of his arm to stop him, spinning him around and fixing eye
contact. 'No, no, that's not it,' she insisted. 'There's more to it.' He said
nothing as she searched in his eyes for answers. 'He gave you something, didn't
he, something you were missing, something you needed, something you couldn't
find in yourself?'
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
He tried to walk away, but Sally kept a firm grip on his arm. 'You're trying to
think like him, aren't you? You're trying to think like the man we're after.
You've been doing it since you agreed to take the missing persons case ... But
I still don't understand why you would go after someone like Lawlor.'
'Because I thought he could fill in the gaps, all right,' he finally confessed,
knowing Sally wouldn't give in. 'I have to be able to think like him if we're
going to find him quickly. I ... I know so much about him already, but there
were too many gaps. I needed to know why he's really doing this. Love? Hate?
Anger? Power? Acceptance? Lawlor helped fill some of those gaps.'
Sally found herself nodding, both glad and afraid to be right. 'Are you sure
it's a good idea to start thinking like he does? To have the likes of Lawlor
going around inside your head?'
'I don't have a choice. If Louise Russell is to have any chance, then I don't
have a choice. Anyway,' he tried to reassure her, 'I'll be fine.'
'I guess that depends on what's going on in your head already, doesn't it?'
Sean sighed, almost relieved to have someone to confide in, to share the burden
of his innermost thoughts and fears. 'I'm just trying to think like him, not
become him. I'll be fine, don't worry.' They started walking again.
'I hope you know what you're doing, guv'nor.'
'Yeah, well, me too.'
'And Lawlor - did you get what you want from him?'
'More or less.'
'Which was?'
'His motivation.'
'And now you know?'
'Not exactly, but I'm closer. I won't know exactly until all the pieces fall
into place, that moment when everything suddenly makes sense. But Lawlor
helped, for sure. I know that their actions are largely underpinned by the same
need to feel powerful but at the same time to be accepted and loved. Lawlor
achieved that by raping women in their own homes, women he'd stumbled across
and made an instant decision to attack. Our man wants the same, but his primary
way of getting what he wants is by keeping the women. The question is, why does
he do that? Why does he have to keep them?'
'To make the experience last longer?' Sally guessed.
'That's what I thought, at first. Made good sense, but now I'm not so sure. I
don't think he wants to make it last as long as he can, I think he wants to
make it last a very specific period of time.'
'A week?'
'Give or take twelve hours, yes.'
'Why?'
'Acceptance and love.'
'I don't understand?'
'I think, and I'm only guessing, but I think he's reliving a relationship he
had with someone, a relationship that might have lasted as little as a week or
so, but one in which he was happy - accepted and loved. The two women he's
taken look the same, remember?'
'An ex-girlfriend?'
Sean shrugged his shoulders. 'That would be my guess. Now all I have to do is
work out how to use it to help me find the son-of-a-bitch before it's too
late.' They'd almost reached the main office entrance. 'Do me a favour, Sally,
keep this between the two of us, OK?'
'Sure. If that's what you want.'
'It is,' he told her and walked into the still busy main office.
Through the Perspex windows of his own office he could see Anna, waiting for
him.
'How did the interview go?' said Donnelly. 'Did he cough for it?'
'No,' Sean answered dismissively. 'It's not him. We need to think again. What's
she still doing here?' He jutted his chin towards his office.
Donnelly shrugged his shoulders. 'Said she wanted to wait for you.'
'Great.' Sean headed for his door, entering without speaking.
'How did the interview go?' she asked.
Sean exhaled as he sat heavily in his chair. 'It's not him, if that's what you
mean.'
'But you knew that already, didn't you?'
'Bloody hell, not you as well.'
'It was clear from his previous crimes it wasn't him.'
'Wait a minute. You need to slow down a little. He could easily have been our
man. His previous crimes had enough similarities to make him a viable suspect.
Don't try and be too clever. That's a sure way of fucking things up. Anyway,
are you planning on wasting the whole weekend here?'
'I wanted to hear about the interview.'
'And now you have.'
'I'd like to listen to it in full, if that's OK with you.'
'Why, given that Lawlor's not our man?'
'For research purposes. He's still a serial sex offender, even if he didn't
commit these particular crimes. I'd like to listen to what he had to say.'
'How d'you know he said anything?'
'Let's just say I have faith in your powers of persuasion.'
Suddenly he was suspicious of her. Why had she been attached to the
investigation? Was her brief to help him - or to study him? Whatever her
motive, he was beginning to admire her persistence. Clearly she wasn't going to
be shaken loose easily.
'Sure,' he said, and tossed her a working copy of the taped interview from his
desktop. 'That's the only copy I have, so don't lose it. I'll need it for the
unused material schedule.'
'Thank you.'
'Don't mention it.' He got up and put on his raincoat. 'I'm done. I'm going to
go home and remind myself what my wife looks like. I recommend you do the same.
Back here tomorrow, six a.m., if you can stomach it.'
'I'll be here,' she assured him.
'Yes,' he answered, 'I had a feeling you would be.'
Thomas Keller sat alone at his kitchen table scooping baked beans straight from
the saucepan he'd heated them in, swallowing without chewing or tasting, eating
to remove the distraction of hunger, not for pleasure, his mind needing to
concentrate elsewhere - the cellar and the woman it held. He looked up at the
clock hanging from the wall - it was almost midnight, too late to pay her a
visit - that would be rude, not the right thing to do. Better to let her sleep
and then see her in the morning, once she'd had time to rest and realize this
was all for her own good. He smiled happily when his eyes alighted on the
freshly washed women's garments drying on the clothes horse in the corner of
the room, just as they had done a few days before, after he'd taken them from
Karen Green. They were the only clothes he'd washed for weeks. He could hardly
wait to see the joy in her face when he gave her the clothes that would by then
be freshly pressed and ironed.
He grabbed the saucepan from the table and tossed it into the already full
sink, the sound of china breaking not registering in his thoughts as he took
the last clean fork from his shambolic cutlery drawer and negotiated his way
through the house to the back door. Picking up an economy-sized tin of cheap
cat-food, he slowly and quietly opened the door and stepped into the cold
night, searching the trees and hedges that surrounded the back of the
single-storey house for the bright eyes that shone in the dark, waiting for
him. He tapped the fork on the side of the tin, the sound penetrating deep into
the woodland. He made a 'pssst, pssst,' sound as he dug out the solidifying
food and slopped it into chipped, dirty bowls that littered the area at the
back of the house. It wasn't long before he heard the faint rustling sounds in
the hedges and saw the occasional blink of mirrored eyes as the stray cats
examined him from a safe distance, sniffing the air scented with an easy meal.
'Come on,' he encouraged them softly. 'Pssst, pssst, pssst, come on. Come and
get some supper, pssst, pssst, pssst.' But they kept their distance, circling
him in the darkness, calling to each other, unwilling to show themselves to
him, sensing something in him they feared. He grew impatient waiting for them
to approach. 'Don't you want this food? Not good enough for you? Ungrateful
demons is what you are. Fine - have it your way.'
He threw the tin into the bushes, the noise of scattering paws and catcalls
echoing off the walls as he went from bowl to bowl, kicking them in all
directions, the feeling of rejection crashing over him like a foaming tidal
wave.
As he stormed back inside, slamming the door, the feelings stirred memories of
the last time he had seen the mother who abandoned him, almost eight years ago,
just before he'd turned twenty. Emily Keller had made contact with him through
the Internet, telling him she was proud that he was now a man and that he'd got
himself a job with the Post Office. She'd told him how sorry she was that she'd
abandoned him and betrayed him, but she had been so young. She had changed
since then - could they meet and start again? He'd agreed to meet her in a cafe
in Forest Hill.
On the morning he'd arranged to see her he'd been glad to wake with a
developing cold, his throat sore and the mucus building in his nasal passages.
He remembered showering and dressing, taking his time to make himself look as
presentable as he could, combing his hair and dressing in his best clothes, his
one and only suit that he'd last worn three years earlier for his interview
with the Post Office. He'd walked along the busy morning streets, oblivious to
the people he passed, ignoring their looks of surprise as he occasionally
bumped shoulders, until he reached the cafe they'd arranged to meet in, the
type that has photographs of the food on the glossy but sticky menus.
He recognized her from the pictures she'd attached to her emails: still
relatively young, in her mid-thirties, slim with long dark hair that framed her
pretty face. She sat at a window table, nervously toying with a steaming cup of
tea, looking up as he entered, recognition sparking in her eyes, despite not
having seen him since he was four years old, when she handed him over to Social
Services for voluntary adoption before sinking into a life of drugs and petty
crime - although she'd promised him those days were long gone. He hadn't sent
her a picture of himself, but clearly she knew the young man who had just
walked into the cafe was her abandoned son. A smile spread across her lips and
her eyes sparkled with happiness as she rose from the table and smoothed her
clothes, wanting to look her best, wanting to make a good impression. He walked
towards her without smiling, drawing the mucus down from his nasal cavity and
into the back of his throat before contracting the muscles in his neck to push
the green ball of secretion into his mouth, rolling it around and tasting the
years of bitterness it represented, all the painful memories she'd caused and
all the hate he felt for her. When he was close enough to kiss her he filled
his lungs as full as he could and spat the phlegm directly into her face, her
smile replaced with a look of shock and repulsion. He turned and walked out of
the cafe without saying a word. As the door closed behind him he could hear her
screams of revulsion and rejection. He never saw or spoke to her again.
8
Saturday morning, four thirty a.m., and the iPhone's alarm chirped quietly on
the bedside cabinet, barely enough noise to wake any living creature, but it
was sufficient to stir Sean from his shallow sleep, his constantly whirring
mind never allowing real rest to come. He grabbed the phone on the second chirp
and turned it off, quickly checking to make sure it hadn't woken Kate. The
initial shock of awakening soon gave way to a feeling of dreadful tiredness
that threatened to drag him down into unconsciousness. He'd been here a hundred
times before and would probably be here a hundred more times before he could
ever dream of returning to anything like normal sleep patterns. He knew he had
to move now or risk falling into the sort of sleep he wished he'd managed
during the night, pulling the warm duvet from his body, exposing its
near-nakedness to the cold air of the room. He sat on the edge of his bed
rubbing the back of his neck, the muscles in his torso flexing and twitching to
life, the lines of his conditioned body as prominent as those of any
middle-weight boxer.
Once his mind had caught up with where he was and why he was awake so early, he
stood unsteadily and headed for the bathroom, flipping up the toilet seat and
waiting to urinate, but it took a long time to come and only lasted a few
seconds, warning him of his own dehydration and reminding him of the shortness
of his sleep. He decided against flushing and risking waking Kate or the girls
and headed for the shower, setting the temperature at lukewarm and stepping in
straight away, the cold water bringing him back to life. He washed and dressed
quickly and went downstairs feeling passably human. He was aware that the
feeling would only last a few hours and then the rest of the day would be a
struggle to hold mind and body together and he'd have to push through the pain
barrier more than once.
As he sat in the quiet kitchen, sipping black coffee and pushing a barely
touched slice of toast around the plate he sensed Kate's presence approaching
long before he heard or saw her. A few seconds later she drifted into the room
wrapped in his old dressing gown and sat down opposite him, her swollen eyes
and puffy cheeks hiding her natural attractiveness. Sean smiled in spite of his
tiredness and slid his coffee across the table.
She lifted it and took a mouthful, murmured, 'Thanks.'
'My pleasure,' he said. 'What you doing up so early?'
'Seeing you.'
'I'm flattered.'
'You should be. How's the case going?'
'It's not,' he answered, prompting her to look up from the coffee that used to
be his, recognizing the traces of stress in his voice.
'Oh,' she said. 'How come?'
'I don't know. I can't seem to get inside this one's head.'
'Doesn't sound like a good place to be anyway.'
'Yeah, well it's the best place to be if I'm going to find him quickly.'
They were quiet for a while, then Kate spoke again.
'You look really tired.'
'I am really tired.'
Determined to hide the fear and anxiety she felt every time he walked out the
front door, she kept her tone neutral as she asked, 'Will you catch him soon?'
'I'll have him within a week.'
'You must be confident.'
'I'm close,' he confided, 'I just need to figure out his motivation ... I mean
his primary motivation. I'm nearly there, but the answer keeps slipping out of
reach. It'll all come together soon though, and then I'll find him.'
'What part of his motivation don't you understand?'
'Why he keeps them.' He ran a hand through his hair. 'I have theories and
ideas, but I don't know for sure and I can't afford to guess. If you pushed me,
I'd say he keeps them to remind himself of an old girlfriend, probably one he
had a serious relationship with. That's the best I've got so far, but it
doesn't feel completely right and I don't know why.'
'Because it's not right,' she said matter-of-factly.
'Why's that?'
'Women keep things to remind them of what they once had or what they once were:
photographs, old dresses, their kids' old clothes, their husband's old dressing
gowns.' She tugged the gown she was wearing for extra emphasis. 'Men don't. Men
collect things to remind them of what they want but can't have: models of
aeroplanes, badges of old sports cars, pictures of Page Three girls,' she added
with a grin, but Sean wasn't smiling any more. He knew he'd been handed an
important piece of the jigsaw. Now all he needed was to find out where it
fitted.
Sean closed his eyes, his head slumping backwards. 'Jesus Christ, of course. Of
course.'
'You OK?' Kate asked.
'You're right,' Sean told her. 'You're right. He's trying to create something
he never had but always wanted - maybe even believed he had, but didn't. I have
to go.' He grabbed his coat, its pockets already loaded with the things he'd
need for the day, and headed for the front door. 'I'll call you later,' he
promised.
'No you won't,' she whispered when he was gone, a familiar fluttering feeling
returning to her chest. 'You never do.'
Donnelly arrived in the office shortly after five thirty a.m. It was deserted
except for the regular cleaner, who dragged a noisy hoover around behind him,
emptying wastepaper bins into his white bin-liner as and when he found them.
Donnelly gave him nod and a smile, hiding his frustration at not being totally
alone. He sat at his desk and pretended to be reading while he waited for the
cleaner to reach the far end of the office and disappear through the swing
doors. 'And I thought I had a shit job,' he muttered to himself as he pushed
his weight off the worn-out wooden chair, its green cloth torn and frayed, what
little padding it ever had long since flattened. Furtively he wandered around
the office, examining each and every desk, flicking through his colleagues' in
and out trays, reading any memos left on desks and flicking through diaries
that hadn't been locked away, not moving from a desktop until he was happy he
knew what that detective was up to: how much work they had on, whether they'd
been keeping up with their actions and CPS memos and, most importantly of all,
whether they were holding anything back from him, business or personal. As far
as he was concerned this was his Murder Investigation Team every bit as much as
it was Sean's and it was his absolute duty to keep abreast of everything that
was happening within its borders. Any detective sergeant worth his salt would
do the same.
Eventually he came to Sally's desk. It at least appeared neat and organized,
but he was well aware she'd been far from herself since the incident with
Sebastian Gibran and as her only fellow DS on the team it was his
responsibility to make sure she was coping. All it needed was one person to
make a serious mistake and the whole investigation could go down the pan. He
thumbed through her diary first, the standard four-by-three-inch black
Metropolitan Police Friendly Society diary everyone seemed to receive each
year. What he saw was page after page of emptiness - no notes, no meetings, no
appointments, nothing. Technology had moved on, but detectives were creatures
of habit and had been using these little diaries to scribble notes in for
decades. They were still faster and easier to use than any mobile phone or
tablet, so an empty diary suggested troubled waters. Her in and out trays were
the same, just a few old memos and CPS requests that appeared to have been
largely ignored, nothing current or apparently important. Clearly Sean had been
keeping her away from too much work or responsibility, trying to protect her,
buy her some time to fully recover. He was disappointed that she hadn't felt
able to confide in him, but shrugged it off, promising himself that he'd keep
an even closer eye on her in future, for her sake and everybody else's. Making
sure her diary was back exactly where she'd left it, he headed for Sean's open
door.
Donnelly slipped into Sean's office and began to search through the piles of
papers that were beginning to form on his two desks, but they contained little
of interest and told him nothing he didn't already know. Sean was too long in
the tooth to leave anything sensitive or interesting on public view. He pulled
at Sean's top drawer, one of three hiding under his desk, the same wooden set
that everyone in the office would have, but it was locked, as he'd expected. He
tried the others and found them locked too. 'No problem,' he announced to the
empty room, and pulled a set of keys from his trouser pocket, fanning them out
in his hand until he located the master key that fitted each and every wooden
drawer under each and every desk in the Met. Whistling to himself, he jiggled
the long, thin piece of metal into the small slot of the top drawer. After a
few seconds he was able to rotate the key through one-hundred-eighty degrees
signifying the drawer was open. There would be no need to check the other
drawers, he already knew they contained little more than stationery and
reference books.
He slid the top drawer open and was relieved to see his prize waiting for him -
Sean's leather-bound journal, the type of thing you buy someone for Christmas
when you can't think of anything else. But Sean had put his to good use and
Donnelly knew it. 'And what secrets will you reveal today, my old friend?' he
asked the book in his hands as he placed it on the desk and began to flick
through the pages, skipping past things he'd already read, until he found
scribbles and text he didn't recognize. 'Well hello and what do we have here?'
It was as if he was partially entering Sean's mind, a conduit straight to his
secret theories and innermost thoughts about this and other investigations. A
baffling array of circled names, others crossed out, words of varying sizes,
written in different styles as if a dozen people had contributed to the
journal, strong, emotive words scrawled in different-coloured pens: love,
anger, hate, jealousy, greed, possession, passion, fear, some circled and
joined together with lines that snaked across the pages.
'You're either a madman or a genius,' Donnelly spoke to the absent Sean while
turning the pages, finding the names of the victims, Louise Russell and Karen
Green, one dead, one still missing, Green's name circled in a mixture of blue
and red ink, Russell's circled in blue only. A myriad of words and colours,
names and places squeezed themselves into every millimetre of the pages, almost
completely indecipherable. Short questions covered other pages: Why six/seven
days? Why keep them? Why rape? Why violence? Why victs look same? Why same
houses? Why kills? Why dump bodies naked? Why no remorse or compassion? Why
woods? Why wooded car parks? Comfortable in woods? Lives in woods? Staying in
comfort zone? Failed relationship? Covets them? Loves them? Motivation?
Motivation? Motivation?
'Jesus,' he said to himself, flicking through pages and pages of the rambling
notes of an obsessed man on the edge. It crossed his mind Sean might be laying
the groundwork for manufacturing early retirement on the grounds of a
stress-related illness, but he knew the man better than that and he'd seen his
manic scribbles in the past, usually just before he led the team to the man
they were after. But they'd never been this frantic, this desperate.
A noise coming from the corridor on the other side of the double swing doors
startled him. Hurriedly he replaced the journal in the drawer and slid it
silently shut, turning the master key and locking it, then ghosting from the
room back into the main office.
He managed to be a few steps clear as the double doors swung open and Anna
walked in looking unreasonably fresh and alert, considering she could have had
no more than three or four hours' sleep. He welcomed her with a broad smile,
his moustache bending up at the ends. 'Good morning. Nice to have another early
bird on the team.'
'I've always liked this time of day,' she said. 'It's quiet and peaceful -
gives me the time and space I need to think.'
'And I thought it was because you were trying to impress me.'
'Maybe I am,' she answered with a falsely suggestive smile.
'Or maybe it's someone else you're trying to impress? Someone a little higher
in rank?' She didn't answer. 'So,' he continued, 'you're a what ... a criminal
psychiatrist?'
'I certainly hope not,' she answered, 'and I'm sure you'd arrest me if I was.'
'You know what I mean.'
'No, I'm a psychiatrist and a criminologist, specializing in offender
profiling. The FBI have been doing it for years, but it's relatively new to the
police here. They've been somewhat resistant to the idea.'
'That sounds like us,' Donnelly teased her. 'So away you go then: impress me -
tell me all about the man we're looking for.'
'It's too soon to be accurate. I need more information, more time to study the
case and previous case histories before I'd be willing to commit to a profile.'
'Come on,' Donnelly encouraged, 'it'll be between the two of us, nothing
official.'
'OK,' she agreed with a sigh. 'Based on what we know so far, I believe he's
white, probably small or slight - that's based on the fact he uses drugs to
subdue his victims, which suggests he's not physically confident. He has a
troubled past and was almost certainly abused or abandoned as a child, possibly
both. I understand he appears to have no previous convictions, but I'm
convinced he would have committed residential burglaries and other serious
sexual assaults; perhaps he's just never been caught.'
'It's possible,' Donnelly partially agreed.
'This type of offender usually takes trophies from victims, but I believe that
in this case the women themselves are his trophies, albeit perishable ones,
ones he tires of and then disposes of with no regrets, pity or remorse - by
then they are just objects to him.
'I imagine him to be a bit of a social misfit who lives alone. I can't see him
forming any lasting relationships or tolerating an invasion into his private
life, and his lack of confidence means he'll very much stay in his comfort
zone, which in turn means he's almost certainly local. He knows these areas
well. He sees them every day. They are his world and he's not going to start
operating outside of that world.
'The fact the victims look very similar is interesting. I think they remind him
of somebody, somebody he has genuine hatred for, possibly his mother, possibly
because she failed to stop whatever abuse was happening to him - maybe it was
his father who abused him or the mother's boyfriend.'
'Why doesn't he project his hatred directly to the abuser? Why the mother?'
Donnelly asked.
'Transferred hatred or blame is not uncommon. He probably loved his mother, but
had no relationship outside of the abuse with his abuser. To him, hating the
person who actually abused him would be as pointless as you or I hating the
wasp that stung us - there's no emotional attachment there. Love and hate are
dangerously close to each other.
'There is of course a sexual element to his attacks, that I believe he displays
all the common traits of those who commit such acts, in as much as it makes him
feel powerful and in control, something he rarely is in the real world. His
normal everyday life is a bit of a struggle for him. Not one of life's winners,
you might say.'
Donnelly mimed applause. 'Very impressive. It's amazing what you can learn from
books these days.'
'Actually most of my observations are based on my own clinical studies of
serious offenders. Interviews with sexual predators and murderers. Some sane,
some not.'
'Funnily enough, I've had a bit of experience of that myself.'
Their conversation was interrupted by Sean clattering through the double doors,
a look of surprise and disappointment that he wasn't the first to arrive etched
on his face.
'You two are early. Trying to impress someone?'
Donnelly and Anna almost laughed. The doors clattered again, kicked open by
Sally, her hands full of bags and a tray of coffee in polystyrene cups. She
dropped her bags on the floor and slid the tray on to the desk closest to their
gathering.
'I didn't know who would be here yet so I bought a few,' she said, slumping
into a chair.
'Nice one, Sally,' Donnelly said.
'Thank you,' Anna added.
'You look a little rough around the edges there, Sally,' Donnelly told her.
'Thanks. I love you too.'
'Just saying.'
'We're all going to look a lot worse by the time this is over, so put your
collective vanities to one side if you can,' Sean rescued Sally. He helped
himself to a coffee off the tray, unconcerned whether it was black, white,
sweetened or otherwise, and took a swig. 'OK, while everybody's here who
matters, we might as well catch up on where we are.'
'That'd be nice,' Donnelly chipped in.
'The way I see it, we have two, maybe three days before Louise Russell will be
killed.' The coldness of the fact made even Sean uncomfortable with what he was
saying. 'And when she dies I think it will only be a matter of days before he
takes another.'
'A replacement?' Anna asked.
'I think so. We already know he's kept two hostages at the same time. It seems
to be part of his modus operandi. It's reasonable to suppose he will want to
again.'
'That would make some sort of sense,' agreed Anna.
'Hold on a minute,' Sally interrupted. 'If he replaces the ones he kills, then
why hasn't he taken someone to replace Karen Green? She was killed almost
thirty-six hours ago now.'
'He might have,' Sean confessed. 'All surrounding stations have been asked to
report any missing persons of similar descriptions straight to us. If he's
already taken someone and they get reported missing, we'll soon know about it.'
'And if no one reports them missing?' Donnelly asked.
'We wait for a body,' Sean answered - more cold truths. 'In the meantime, we're
drawing on all the resources that can be spared. Featherstone's arranged for
extra detectives to be assigned door-to-door inquiries over an expanded area
and uniform are carrying out roadblocks close to both abduction locations and
the body drop site, checking for suspects and witnesses. We've even got India
99 up and about looking for whatever it is helicopters look for. Plus there are
uniform patrols, both foot and vehicles, searching for the sort of locations
our man could be keeping the victims at, old smallholdings, abandoned factories
and particularly anything underground - coal bunkers, cellars, bomb shelters,
anywhere remote or concealed, but within a few miles of the crime scenes - our
boy doesn't travel far.'
'You think he keeps them underground?' Anna asked, causing all eyes to fall on
Sean.
'Yes. Dr Canning discovered what appears to be coal dust under the victim's
finger and toe nails.'
'Oh, how I would like a few minutes alone with this bastard,' muttered Donnelly.
'Save the tough talk for when we've found him,' said Sean. 'Everybody happy?'
'Yeah, sure,' Sally answered tiredly.
'Sounds like a plan,' Donnelly acknowledged. Anna said nothing.
'One more thing,' Sean continued hesitantly, afraid of too many awkward
questions about how he came by the information, remembering his ruthless
breaking down of Douglas Levy. 'I think he's disguising himself as a postie.
That's how he gets the doors open.'
'I've not seen anything to suggest that,' Sally argued.
'A new witness,' said Sean. 'He mentioned something that suggested it.'
'What?' Sally persisted.
'It's a long and very uninteresting story. Just take my word for it, he's
pretending to be a postman, but let's keep that between us for the time being -
I don't want to risk a detail like that leaking to the press, and let's not
forget we still have the forensics from five different crime scenes to chase
and then we have to cross-reference DNA and fingerprints from all scenes to be
sure that this is indeed the same man at each.'
'It's the same man,' Anna said a little too loudly.
'Of course it is,' Sean said impatiently, 'but courts are a real pain in the
arse about something called evidence. Theories are fine in the classroom, but
not out here.'
Donnelly and Sally looked away, leaving Anna to her own private humiliation.
Sean continued: 'While we're all here I might as well say it - this
investigation is turning into a monster. We've got the world and his wife out
there looking for Louise Russell, but it won't feel like it to us. We'll be the
ones stuck here till all hours, fighting through piles of reports, making phone
calls, chasing up forensics, pestering potential witnesses, reading fucking
useless intelligence reports and trying to fend off every unsolved murder in
the last decade the powers-that-be try to dump on us. But be mindful, and make
sure everybody on the team is mindful, that this investigation will be under
the national microscope. Which means everybody needs to be on their best,
please - no smoking at the crime scenes, no laughing and joking when the
cameras are around and be damn careful what you say when you're talking on your
mobiles - if we can eavesdrop on phone conversations, you can be sure the media
can. If a conversation you had with the lab turns up in your favourite Sunday
redtop, you'll know where it's come from. Everybody understand?' His audience
of three nodded and grunted their understanding. 'Good.'
He was about to head for his office when Sally stopped him.
'What's this one about? Why's he doing it?'
'It's about acceptance,' he answered without hesitation. 'About finally having
what he's always wanted, but until now could never have. It's about love -
loving them and being loved by them.'
'Love!' Donnelly interrupted loudly and abruptly. 'This doesn't look like love
to me - taking her out to the middle of some godforsaken wood in the middle of
the night and squeezing the life out of her, then leaving the poor wee cow's
body lying naked for a fucking dog to find. Which bit of that sounds like love
to you?'
'I didn't say he was rational,' Sean explained. 'His perception of love and
what it means is completely different from yours, but it's still ultimately
about love. It's the one thing he covets more than anything else and it's the
one thing he's never had.'
'Are we supposed to feel sorry for him?' sneered Donnelly. 'He's just another
sick pervert who needs to be locked up with the general prison population for a
few nights before they stick him in segregation. The other prisoners will soon
make sure he gets justice.'
'Not sorry for what he is,' Sean answered, 'but maybe we should consider what
may have happened to him to make him what he is now.'
'How do we know anything happened to him?' Donnelly persisted. 'Perhaps he just
enjoys it?'
'This one's no Sebastian Gibran,' Sean spilled out, immediately glancing
apologetically at Sally. 'He's a product of circumstance, not nature.'
'Aye, maybe, but all this love nonsense, I don't believe it and neither does
she,' said Donnelly, indicating Anna.
'Really,' Sean said. 'Care to enlighten me?'
Anna cleared her throat. 'At this time it would be correct to say that I don't
see any particular signs of love from offender to victims. I see transferred
expressions of revenge and the need to feel powerful, hence the acts of sexual
aggression and abuse. But no signs of empathy or affection.'
'What about the moisturizing cream and traces of perfume on the body? They were
too fresh to have been applied before she was taken,' Sean argued.
'We don't know that they weren't the victim's own cosmetics,' Donnelly reminded
him.
'Even if they were the victim's own, he still gave them to her or allowed her
to have them. At the very least that shows a degree of empathy,' Sean explained.
'I don't think they are the victim's own cosmetics,' Anna said. 'I believe
they'll turn out to be the brands used by whoever it is he has this hatred for.'
'Like his mother?' Donnelly suggested.
'Possibly his mother,' Anna agreed.
'You're wrong,' Sean snapped at them. 'Strands of what you're saying are
probably true, but you don't understand him - you don't understand what
motivates him, why he has to do what he does.' A tense atmosphere hung in the
room until Sally broke the silence.
'So what's our next move?'
'Chase forensics and the door-to-door and wait for the tidal wave of
information that's about to come our way,' said Sean. 'Speaking of which, I'll
be in my office if anyone needs me.' He regathered his coat and headed for his
small, partitioned room. Donnelly shook his head before burying it in a pile of
information reports.
'I can't stand drinking from these things,' Sally told Anna, looking accusingly
at her polystyrene cup. 'Come on, let's sneak off to the canteen and I'll treat
you to a decent cup.'
Anna shrugged her shoulders. 'Why not?'
They made sure they were well clear of the inquiry office before speaking
again, talking as they walked.
'So,' Sally asked, 'what do you make of Sean then? Intense, isn't he?'
'I was thinking more along the lines of arrogant and rude,' Anna replied.
'He doesn't do it on purpose,' Sally assured her. 'He can't help himself, not
when he's absorbed in an investigation.' They walked in silence for a while as
they passed a steady flow of uniform officers heading away from the canteen.
'He doesn't approach investigations in a way I've ever seen before - he doesn't
rely totally on the tangible evidence laid on a plate for him. He's more
instinctive, intuitive.' They entered the already busy canteen and found a
couple of seats at the end of a long table, where Anna sat alone, feeling
self-conscious until Sally returned from the counter with two porcelain mugs of
coffee. 'Where were we?'
'You were telling me about Sean.'
'Oh yeah,' Sally remembered, 'DI Corrigan.'
'Do you like working with him?' Anna asked.
'Like isn't necessarily the right word. It's more a case of being interesting,
I suppose.'
'Because of his intuitions?'
'He can think like them, you know,' Sally blurted out. 'Not just how and when
and where, but really think like them, in every detail. He seems to be able to
understand why they do whatever it is they're doing. It can be a little
unnerving at times, but he's able to control it, to turn it off and on.'
'Where is he, when he turns on this intuition? Can he be anywhere, or does he
do it more often in certain places?'
'I think he can do it anywhere, but mainly at the crime scenes. He seems to get
a lot of information from scenes that nobody else notices. Like I said -
details.'
'Does he talk to himself when he's examining a scene?'
'That I haven't seen, but if you're there with him he'll tell you what he's
seeing or feeling, like a kind of commentary.'
'Feeling?'
'What he believes the killer was feeling.'
'That's interesting.'
'Is that what all the questions are about, you find him interesting?'
'I suppose so.'
'Interesting or attractive?'
'Interesting from a clinical perspective. Anyway, I'm married and so is he.'
'Married, not dead,' Sally teased. 'And he is a good-looking man. Fit too,
keeps himself in good shape. Don't tell me you haven't noticed, because I won't
believe you.'
'He's not my type. I don't do men who have mood swings.'
'I know what you mean,' Sally agreed. 'Although there was a time when I had a
bit of a crush on him, I have to admit. I found his intensity very attractive.'
Anna wasn't interested in the subject. 'Has he had a traumatic experience
recently, perhaps a serious injury while on duty or something in his private
life?'
Sally's smile fell away fast. 'No,' she said. 'Not as far as I know.'
'I'm surprised.'
'If it's injuries and post-traumatic stress you're looking for, then I'm your
girl.'
'Excuse me?' said Anna, her face changing as the meaning sank in. 'Oh, I'm
sorry, of course. I heard about what happened to you. It must have been
terrible.' She didn't tell Sally about her role in assessing Sebastian Gibran,
knowing it would destroy any trust there was between them. 'How are you coping?'
'I'm pretty much healed. Still get a little short of breath now and then, but
I'll get there.'
'That's not what I meant.'
'I know it isn't,' said Sally, lowering her voice and looking around to ensure
she wasn't being watched or overheard.
'Have you had any counselling?'
'No.'
'Why not?'
'Because I'm a cop. We don't do counselling, it's a sign of not coping and not
coping's a sign you're not up to the job and that means failure. We don't do
failure. Most of the people I work with are men, and the women I work with have
been working with them so long they think like men. I guess I did a bit too,
until ... well, you know.'
'Nobody would judge you if you wanted help.'
'They wouldn't understand. If I was a man I'd probably think my scars were
cool, showing them off every chance I got, on the beach, in the pool - you know
how stupid men can be. They wouldn't need help, they'd be the talk of the
office, a proper hero, and they'd love it. It's not like that for a woman.
These scars make me ugly. They mark me as a victim.'
'You're neither ugly nor a vic--'
'Yes, I am,' Sally answered coldly. 'I'm both.'
Anna studied her for a while before trying to reach her. 'You really need to
speak to someone, Sally. And I would like to be that someone. Just take it
slowly, move at your own speed. I'm a good listener.'
'I'll think about it,' said Sally, standing up to leave. 'I need to get back to
the office.' She gathered her belongings from the table and headed for the door.
Anna stared into her drink as if she might see answers swirling in the cup. It
appeared she now had two new cases instead of one.
Alone in his office, Sean was oblivious to the noisy mixture of banter and
business beyond his door as the rest of the team arrived for work. Already his
eyes were red and tired from staring at the computer screen, reading through
every crime report of stalking complaints recorded on the Crime Reporting Input
System over the last two years.
He didn't look up as Donnelly entered with a stack of information reports,
peering over his shoulder at the monitor. 'CRIS reports?' he enquired. 'Hoping
to find something?'
'What?' said Sean, drifting out of his trance.
Donnelly indicated the screen. 'I was wondering what you were looking for.'
'Just an idea,' he answered. 'A possible angle.'
'Care to share?'
'If I'm right about him using the victims as substitutes for something he wants
but can't have, then the thing he wants has to be a woman.'
'Naturally.'
'And if she's that important to him, he must have watched her, maybe even tried
to approach her, made a bit of a pest of himself.'
'You mean stalked her?'
'It's a possibility. A good possibility. And maybe she became aware of it, got
sick of him and reported it ...'
'How far you going back?'
'A couple of years. If I use roughly the same description as our victims, I
shouldn't hit too many. I can't use an exact description in case she's changed
her appearance at some point.'
'Young, attractive women who've been stalked.' Donnelly raised an eyebrow.
'You're going to be a busy man.'
'Still, I reckon it's worth trying.'
'Say you're right,' Donnelly continued, 'about him wanting these women as
replacements for someone else, for someone he ...'
'Wants, but can't have,' Sean finished for him.
'Aye, that. What I don't get is why he doesn't just take the one he wants - do
to her what he's done to the others.'
Sean looked confused. It seemed incomprehensible to him that Donnelly didn't
understand. 'Because she's his god,' he said, as if stating the obvious. 'You
don't kill your gods.'
'Aye.' Unconvinced, Donnelly nevertheless pretended it made sense to him. 'I'd
best let you get on with it then.'
Sean didn't reply, his mind already elsewhere as he watched Donnelly leave. His
fingers hovered above the keypad for a few seconds while he cleared his
thoughts. When he was ready, he began to type the information for the search
criteria into the machine. He pressed the key marked search, leaned back in his
chair and waited, a tangible sense of excitement crawling up his spine,
spreading through his stomach and chest, making his heart skip along like a
flat stone skimmed over a still pond. After a few seconds the screen changed,
the number in the top right-hand corner telling him during the last three years
there had been over 250 reported cases of harassment, more commonly referred to
as stalking, involving women of the description he'd entered. He felt the
excitement rush from his torso, leaving the emptiness of disappointment.
'Too many,' he said to himself, knowing it could take him days to read all the
reports properly and make phone calls to victims, witnesses, investigating
officers - days he didn't have. He needed to narrow the search fields, but the
fear of missing the one vital report momentarily paralysed him, his own
reflection in the computer screen melting away and then reforming as that of
Karen Green, her eyes open and staring, contrasting with the pale skin of her
dead face, her image fading and being re-born on the screen as Louise Russell,
her eyes pleading with him to find her. As her image solidified he could see it
was already too late, her skin turning pale, dark, wet strands of hair sticking
to her skin as brown leaves gently blew across her face.
'Their eyes,' he said to himself as the image of Louise Russell sank into the
blackness of the screen and disappeared. 'You both have green eyes. He wouldn't
change that, not the eyes.'
He added the eye colour to the descriptive search page and ran the inquiry
again, the excitement mounting within him. Eyes nervously fixed in the top
right-hand corner, he waited until the screen blinked once indicating that the
search had been completed. The number of hits had been reduced to forty-three.
It was still more than he'd bargained for, but manageable. He brought up the
first crime report and began to read.
Thomas Keller stood at the top of the flight of stairs that led down into the
darkness of the cellar. Barely able to control his excitement, he paused in the
open doorway, listening for signs of danger, watching for a threatening shadow
moving across the floor that could mean one of them was out of their cage and
waiting for him. They were both strong, athletic young women - if they caught
him by surprise they could do him serious harm, and he knew it - he feared it.
Satisfied all was well, he began his descent, carefully balancing the food and
drink on its tray, clean pressed clothes draped over his free forearm.
As he stepped into the room he only had eyes for the cage that held Deborah
Thomson, a happy smile spread across his lips as he peered through the gloom at
the shaking figure cowering under the filthy duvet he'd left for her. But he
didn't see her terror, he saw Sam, safe now, safe in his care.
Sliding the tray on to the table behind the screen that he used to hang her new
clothes over, he greeted her. 'Good morning. Do you mind if I put the light
on?' She didn't answer. 'Good,' he continued, 'I can't really see what I'm
doing without it.'
He reached out and pulled the cord, flooding the cellar with weak yellow light.
Then he walked slowly towards Deborah, his hand held out in front of him, palm
up to convince her he was no threat, and crouched next to her cage, still
smiling as she pushed herself into the furthest corner, the duvet pulled up to
her chin, her eyes wide open with incomprehension, like a deer just before the
car that's going to kill it hits.
'Did you have a good sleep?' he asked. 'I hope the chloroform didn't make you
feel too sick. I'm sorry I had to use it, but it was the only way to get you
safely and quickly out of there. I know you'll forgive me, in time.' He rubbed
his hands together nervously. 'Anyway, you'll probably want to clean yourself
up and maybe try to eat something. You'll feel better if you can manage it. OK?
Let's have you out of there then.'
He spoke as if they were on an awkward first date, but his words made her
recoil, her feet desperately trying to push her further away, the wire of her
prison imprinting a pattern of squares in her back.
'It's OK, it's OK,' he tried to soothe her, 'you won't have to stay in here too
long, I promise. It's only to keep you safe until you're stronger, until you
understand. We have to be careful because they'll be looking for you, trying to
take you back, make you believe you're someone you're not. In time you'll
understand what I've done for you - for us.'
Deborah's throat fluttered and pulsed as she repeatedly tried to swallow
non-existent saliva, fear and nausea straining every muscle taut to the point
where it felt as if they would snap, shock drawing the blood away from her
non-vital organs, redirecting it to her brain in an effort to keep her
conscious, turning her lips almost white and her skin grey.
Oblivious to her terror, he unlocked the cage door, swinging it open carefully
so as not to alarm her. His face reddened slightly with excitement and
anticipation, his lips swelling plump and purple as his eyes moved over the
shape under the duvet, the familiar tightness returning to his groin as he
remembered her shape and warmth - the soft skin of the woman under the bedding.
Without thinking he found himself moving into the cage, his eyes growing larger
and larger as the tightening in his trousers grew more and more uncomfortable,
suddenly snapping out of his trance as instinct kicked in, warning him he was
being reckless, putting himself in danger. He checked his hands and realized he
was unarmed.
In a panic he stumbled backwards out of the cage, tugging at the stun-gun that
was tangled in the pocket of his tracksuit, ripping the material as he finally
pulled it free, panting and smiling with relief, looking back into the cage,
seeing the recognition of what he was holding in her eyes. The feeling in his
groin had faded away and again he felt in control of the woman and himself. He
looked down at the stun-gun and back to her. 'Don't be afraid of this,' he
said. 'It's not to hurt you, it's to keep you safe.'
'I don't want you to keep me safe. I want you to let me go.'
He hadn't been expecting her to speak and her words momentarily shocked him
into silence, the smile still fixed on his face like a painted doll's. 'You
shouldn't say things like that, Sam. I'm here to look after you.'
'I don't need anyone to look after me,' she answered, the aggression and
bitterness in her voice obvious. 'All I need is for you to let me out of here
and stop calling me Sam - my name is Deborah, Deborah Thomson.'
'No,' he insisted, trying to restrain his anger, 'that's what they want you to
believe, but it's all lies. Your name is Sam. Don't you remember? It's me,
Tommy. I told you I'd come back for you. So that we could be together, like
we're supposed to be.'
'I don't know you,' she yelled, tears of anger and fear bursting through her
frustration. 'My name is Deborah Thomson and I want to go home.'
'Shut up!' Face twisted in rage, he advanced towards her holding the stun-gun
in front of him. 'Shut the fuck up! That's just their lies. You have to clean
yourself of their lies and then you'll remember.'
Louise Russell watched from her cage, eyes darting between the two unevenly
matched combatants, praying that Deborah would do as she had asked, knowing
that his anger would be redirected to her, the way it had been when Karen Green
was occupying the other cage. She remembered unwittingly playing a dangerous
game with Karen's safety, and now Deborah was doing the same thing, pushing him
ever closer to venting his anger on Louise. She prayed for Deborah to stop, her
eyes never leaving him while her heart punched against her ribs, the sound
echoing deafeningly loud in her head. 'Please stop, please be quiet,' she
silently pleaded with Deborah, unaware that she was mouthing the words as she
said them over and over again, waiting for Deborah to respond to his
accusations. After a few seconds she realized Deborah had fallen silent, the
relief causing her body to slump as she drew in a long, staggered breath. She
listened to the silence, her eyes once again darting between the two of them,
as something like calm spread through the cellar.
Finally he spoke. 'I'm sorry,' he told Deborah. 'I forgot: you've been through
a lot. You must be tired.' He walked to the screen, his eyes never leaving her,
and picked up the tray in his free hand, taking it back to the cage and sliding
it in through the open door, then returning to the screen and, as carefully as
he could, pulling her clothes from the metal frame, carrying them back across
the room and placing them on the floor just inside the entrance to her wire
prison before closing and locking the door. 'It's probably better if you get
cleaned up a bit later, but you can wear the clothes - they're yours, after
all. Your real clothes, not the ones they made you wear.' He searched her face
for some sign of approval, but she merely stared back at him with unblinking
bright green eyes. 'I'll leave you to get some rest.'
He hesitated at the entrance to her cage, expecting her to thank him or tell
him she looked forward to seeing him again, but to his disappointment she said
nothing.
'OK, well ...' he said, to cover his embarrassment, 'I'll see you later.'
Turning the main light off, he scampered up the stairs, slamming and locking
the door behind him.
Neither woman said anything. They waited, listening to the quiet sounds of the
cellar, praying he wouldn't return. Louise knew his habits well by now - if he
didn't come back immediately, he would be gone for hours. When she felt it was
safe she exhaled a long slow breath, stale air she'd been holding in her lungs
for what seemed like hours finally escaping.
'Deborah ... Deborah you need to listen to me.'
'He's a fucking lunatic,' Deborah whispered.
'Yes, he is,' Louise agreed. 'He's a lunatic who's going to kill us both if we
don't help each other escape.'
'You've said all this already. You want me to attack him when he lets me out of
his fucking cage and grab his key and let you out. Overpower him together,
right?'
'Yes. It's our only chance. You have to believe me.'
'It won't work. And then it'll be worse for me.'
Louise fell silent, thinking of a way to cut through Deborah's
self-preservation instincts.
'I was you,' she said. 'Just a day or so ago - I was you. He gave me a mattress
and a duvet, he let me clean myself and gave me food and drink. He gave me
those clothes, Deborah. Those same clothes he's given you - he made me wear
them.'
Deborah looked at the clothes on the floor of her cage. 'These?' she asked.
'Yes.'
Deborah picked up the pile of laundered items and threw them against the wire,
kicking them away with her feet. 'I won't be part of this sick fucker's
fantasy,' she said loudly, unconcerned who heard her, her South London accent
as thick as her anger.
'No!' Louise tried to calm her. 'No, don't do that. We need the clothes, you
have to wear them.'
'No fucking way.'
'We have to play along with him, make him think everything is exactly how he
wants it to be. That's the only way he'll relax, so we can catch him by
surprise.'
'You mean long enough for me to catch him by surprise and risk my neck.'
'We have no choice.'
'Yes, we do,' said Deborah, and looked away, signifying an end to the
discussion.
There was another silence, then Louise spoke again.
'Soon he's going to start coming down here, Deborah, he's going to start coming
down here and he'll come into my cage and he'll beat me and rape me - and
you're going to have to watch, you're going to have to listen to me scream
while he holds me down and ... Soon after that he'll come and take me away, and
you'll have to listen to me beg him not to take me, beg him not to kill me. And
when I don't come back, you'll know what's happened. Then, soon after I
disappear, he'll come down here and he'll come to you, Deb--'
'Stop it!' Deborah pleaded. 'I don't want to--'
'He'll come to you and he'll take those clothes off you and he'll take your
duvet and your mattress. And then, when he brings another woman down here and
puts her in this cage, you will become me, Deborah. You will become me.'
Louise could hear sobbing coming from the other cage. Knowing that the next
words had to come from Deborah, she waited.
'All right,' Deborah finally said. 'What do we do?'
Louise felt a flutter of nervous excitement for the first time since he'd taken
her, the chance to regain control of her own destiny suddenly thrilling, giving
her hope that she would escape the darkness and find her way back to the light
that was home and her husband and their plans for an unremarkable, happy life
with each other and the children they were yet to have. 'Next time he comes,
he'll let you out to have a wash. You'll need to wear the clothes or he could
get angry and not allow you out. He'll bring you a tray of food and drink that
he'll leave behind the screen. After you've washed he'll tell you to carry the
tray yourself and that's when you have to do it.'
'Do what?' Deborah asked.
'Throw whatever's on the tray in his face, in his eyes. Then, as many times as
you can, as hard as you can, hit him with the tray, scratch his eyes - if he
has the stun-gun, grab it and use it on him. While he's disorientated, get the
key. He always seems to keep it in his trouser pocket - the left one, I think.
If he starts to fight back before you have the key, kick and punch him, keep
kicking him, keep punching. You can do this, I know you can.'
'I went to school in New Cross,' said Deborah. 'I know how to kick and punch,
believe me.'
'Good,' said Louise. 'Once you've got the key, slide it along the floor towards
my cage and I'll let myself out - I can get my hand through the wire and reach
the lock, I've already tried it. Once I'm out, I'll join you and we'll kick the
bastard to till he's almost dead, agreed?'
'Agreed.'
'Then we drag him into one of these stinking cages and lock him in.'
'As easy as that,' Deborah mocked.
'No,' Louise answered. 'But if I'm going to die, if I'm never going to see my
husband again, when the truth of what's happened here comes out, I want him to
know that I tried, I fought back, I wasn't meekly slaughtered like some
farmyard animal. I want him to be proud of me. I want him to know.'
'OK,' Deborah agreed. 'So once we've got him locked in a cage, then what?'
'We leave him,' said Louise. 'We leave him there. For ever. Let the bastard
starve to death.'
'But the police - what about the police?'
'We tell them nothing about this place. We tell them he kept us in a dark place
somewhere we didn't know. Then he blindfolded us and drove us back to our homes
and let us go. We can't help them find him, we don't know anything about him.
And all the while he's down here, rotting in this cellar, screaming for help
that never comes.'
'I'm not sure,' said Deborah. 'We should tell the police.'
'So he can be locked up in some cushy prison for a few years and then they let
him go? No, he deserves more than that.'
'Then we'd be murderers.'
'No. We're not going to kill him, we're just not going to keep him alive.'
'It won't work. Someone will miss him, his work - his family. They'll find him
before he dies and no one will know what he's done. He'll be free. He knows
where I live. He'll come after me - and you too.'
Louise thought for a while, refusing to abandon her revenge. 'No, you're right.
We can't leave it to chance.'
'What do you mean?'
'When he took your clothes, soon after I could smell fire.'
'Huh?'
'I think he burned your clothes, somewhere close by.'
'So?'
'So he must have petrol or something.'
Neither woman spoke for a while, each alone in their own thoughts of fire and
screaming, the smell of burning flesh and acrid smoke swirling around in their
dark dreaming.
'I can't do that,' Deborah shuddered.
'You won't have to,' said Louise. 'I'll do it. I want to do it. I want to hear
him scream. I'll make sure the fire's burning well and then I'll close the
door. If the fire doesn't kill him, the smoke will.'
'And when they find him?'
'We tell the police he said he was going to kill himself. When he let us go, he
told us he was going to punish himself, take his own life. That's why he was
locked in the cage, to punish himself. He was looking for redemption.'
'They won't believe it.'
'He's a rapist and a murderer. D'you think they'll give a damn what happened,
what really happened?'
'I don't know.'
'They won't. And we'll never have to think about him again; never have to worry
about him waiting for us every time we step outside. We won't wake up every
night thinking about him, seeing his face every time we close our eyes. We'll
be able to move on, live our lives the way we wanted to before this fucking
bastard decided it was up to him how we lived and how and when we died.'
'There'll be so many questions though,' Deborah argued. 'Maybe we should just
tell the police?'
'No!' Louise barked at her. 'I won't be a victim. I've been stuck down here for
God knows how many days and I've had plenty of time to think and I know one
thing - I won't be a victim, I won't have people feeling sorry for me,
patronizing me, always checking on me, asking me if I'm all right, cops and
journalists hanging around my home, having to stand up in court and tell the
whole world what happened while he sits smugly in the dock reliving his sick
fantasies through my testimony. And what if he gets off? What do we do then?
No, I can't let that happen. I'd rather watch him burn. I want to see him burn.'
Silence hung in the room. Louise's fingers curled around the wire of the cage,
her head cocked to one side as she listened for Deborah's answer.
'OK. OK, I'll do it. I'll try. It'll be like fighting my brothers when we were
growing up ... But I won't help you burn him. If things work, if somehow they
work, I'll help you get him into the cage. I'll even help you lock him in. But
I can't help you start the fire. I can't do that.'
'You don't have to,' Louise assured her.
'And once we're out of here, we go our separate ways. We never see each other
again and we never speak about what happened. We stick to the story and never
change it, no matter what anyone says or tells us they know, we stick to the
story - he killed himself, just like he told us he was going to. Agreed?'
'Agreed,' said Louise, releasing her grip on the wire of her cage and sitting
on the stone floor. After a while she began to laugh quietly to herself, the
alien noise disrupting the bleak atmosphere of the cellar, disturbing Deborah,
making her feel uneasy and suspicious.
'Are you all right?' she asked.
'Yes.' Louise struggled to suppress the laughter. 'I'm sorry, I was just
thinking, I've just had the most important conversation of my life with a total
stranger in a lightless cellar, sitting in a bloody locked cage. It seemed so
ridiculous, it made me laugh.'
A new sense of fear gripped Deborah; not the rush of terror and panic that he
brought with him every time he pulled open the metal door, but a trickle of
anxiety and concern that the only other person in the world who could help her
was slowly sinking into a form of temporary insanity that would render her
useless to both of them. 'Are you sure you're OK, Louise?' She waited longer
than she'd hoped for an answer.
'I'm not mad, if that's what you mean.'
'Of course you're not. It's just ... you've been down here for days. You've
been through so much. The things that bastard did to the other--'
'Karen. Her name was Karen.'
'Sorry, the things he did to Karen. The things you saw him do. It must be
difficult to keep it all together. I don't think I could have.'
'If it doesn't work out,' Louise told her coldly, 'you'll find out. But now,
now you need to put the clothes on, or he'll know something's wrong.'
Deborah didn't answer, but she leaned forward and tentatively took hold of the
pile of clothes he'd stripped from Louise, the very act of touching them making
her feel complicit in his abuse of her fellow captive. She pulled them towards
her and slowly, reluctantly, she began to dress.
9
Sean's universe was a room, inhabited only by himself, an out-dated computer
system and the forty-three crime reports of people who rightly or wrongly
believed they'd been stalked. At that moment nothing else existed: no family,
no friends, no past, no future, just the reports and him. Most he'd been able
to dispel quickly enough: ex-husbands, ex-boyfriends intent on giving their old
partners as hard a time as possible, many had form for other types of petty
crime and were not what he was looking for, not the one he was waiting for -
not the one he expected to jump from the screen and solve the puzzle for him in
one moment of perfect realization. Others, but only a few, had drawn him in
further, made his heart skip a beat and his eyes narrow: men who had started
with flattery, then flowers, moving quickly to over-familiar love letters, too
many unannounced visits to the women's homes and places of work, devoted
affection turning to vile threats and desperate pleas for love and acceptance
once the inevitable rejection of their advances occurred. The majority of these
had been easily scared off by a visit from the police, although a handful had
gone on to stalk new victims, victims who looked nothing like Karen Green or
Louise Russell.
Sean read through the last of the reports, but soon realized it was petering
out to nothing, just like all the others. The man he was looking for wasn't
here. 'Fuck it,' he muttered under his breath. He was sure Karen Green's killer
would have pursued the woman he was now trying to replace with substitutes. But
the reports said otherwise. He stared at the screen, waiting for answers and
ideas, considering the possibility that the killer might have recently moved to
South London from further afield, but he doubted it. He was sure the killer was
local, staying in his comfort zone. So what was he missing?
'Christ,' he muttered, rubbing his hair in frustration, tapping his knuckles on
the desk, feeling as if he already knew the answer, that it was inside him
somewhere, but he just couldn't dig it out. He slumped in his chair and spread
his arms, talking to himself, theorizing where he might be going wrong. 'Maybe
she never reported it? Maybe she didn't even know he existed, that he was
watching her, always thinking about her.'
The ringing of his phone slowly pulled him back into the wider world. He
wearily picked up the receiver. 'DI Corrigan.'
'Hi, I'm Rebecca Owen, calling from the lab.'
'Go on.'
'You submitted samples of moisturizer and perfume, some from a house and some
from a murder victim's body?'
'I'm listening.'
'The samples from the body swabs don't match any of the cosmetic items taken
from the house. They're not the same.'
So Karen Green wasn't the woman he sought replacements for, she was herself a
replacement.
'Do you know what the samples from the body are?' Sean asked.
'Yes. They're significantly more exotic and expensive than anything submitted
from the house, although still not unique or handcrafted, so you won't be able
to narrow them down to a single retail source.'
'I understand, but can you tell me the brands?'
'Of course. The moisturizer is Elemis body cream and the perfume is Black
Orchid by Tom Ford.'
'How long have these products been available?'
'The cream's been around for a good few years, but the perfume's only been on
the market for a couple.'
Sean looked back at his computer. The last of the stalker reports still
flickered on the screen. His search had gone back three years, yet the perfume
only two, so his timelines were right.
'You sure the perfume's only been out for two years?' he asked.
'Certain,' came the reply. 'We'll dispatch the report to you straight away.'
He hung up, his mind already analysing the information from the lab, the names
of the cosmetics etching themselves into his consciousness. He eased his eyes
closed, allowing the images of the hooded man without a face to form behind the
lids, going to the woman he'd taken, gently spraying the expensive perfume into
the air close to her neck, the microscopic droplets drifting until they came to
rest on the soft, taut skin of her throat. He saw the faceless man unscrewing
the lid from the jar of Elemis body cream, thin fingers carefully scooping the
moisturizer from within, spreading it over warm, olive skin, gently at first,
then more firmly as the cream soaked in, his fingers and thumbs forming dimples
and valleys as his hands moved across her body. Sean felt an awakening in his
own sexuality and tried to remember the last time he'd made love to his wife,
but couldn't. His eyes opened as he chastised himself for allowing a physical
want to break his concentration. Once the sexual desires had faded away he
closed his eyes again and waited for the scene to return; he didn't have to
wait long, the woman with short brown hair lying on her back submitting to his
touch as he massaged the Elemis into her body.
His eyes snapped open as he spoke to himself. 'No. That's wrong.' He steadied
his breathing and readied himself to try again, his eyes slowly closing, the
image of the faceless man returning, but now not touching the woman, not using
his own hands to apply the cream or holding the bottle of perfume close enough
to spray her himself. This time he left the cosmetics for them to apply it to
themselves. 'Yes,' he said to himself, 'that's what you did.' A knock at his
open door made him jump.
'Not disturbing anything, am I?' Anna asked.
'Yes, but that's never bothered anyone round here.'
'Do you want me to leave?'
'Only if you want to.'
She took it as an invitation and stepped into his office, taking a seat.
'Working on anything specific?'
'Just trying to get inside this one's head.'
'Yes. I've been told that's what you do.'
'Oh? Someone been speaking out of school?'
She moved the conversation on without answering. 'Is that how you're able to
catch them, by thinking like them?'
He shrugged, suspicious. 'I suppose so. I don't really know.'
'How do you do it? How do you project your imagination so you see what they
see?'
'Who says I do?'
'No one,' she lied. 'It's something I've noticed from my own observations.'
'You're not going to start telling me I'm psychic, are you, because I can work
a few things out other people can't?'
'No,' she laughed. 'I've seen a lot of weird things and interviewed a lot of
interesting people with unusual gifts, but I've never come across anything that
could be described as psychic, or even anything to support the possibility of
it. I have however come across people with abilities similar to yours - able to
turn their imagination into a tool they can control, almost as if they can just
press a play button in their minds and see a scene exactly as it happened,
despite not having witnessed it themselves. You often find it in talented
filmmakers or writers.'
'Well, let me tell you something, Anna. A lot of shit's been said about my
imagination - and most of it's wrong.'
'Who else has been asking about your imagination?'
He ignored her question, but wouldn't forget she'd asked it. 'Why are you
really here?' he demanded.
'To help.'
'And what is it you think you can help me with?'
'Well, what is it you're working on at this moment?'
He looked her up and down, uncertain whether he should let her into his world.
But the opportunity to show her he was right and she was wrong was powerfully
seductive. 'OK, I've just heard back from the lab - the cosmetics found on
Karen Green's body don't match any of the cosmetics we took from her house.'
'Meaning he's using them to make her more like the person he wants her to be,'
she pre-empted him.
'Yes. That part's straightforward enough. The point is, he didn't apply the
cosmetics to her body himself, although he would desperately have wanted to. So
the question is why? Why deny himself that moment, a pleasure like that?'
It was her turn to shrug her shoulders.
'Because he's afraid of them,' Sean continued. 'To put the cream and perfume on
them himself, he'd have to get close to them. He'd have to expose himself to
possible danger, be close enough to have his eyes scratched out, to get a kick
in the bollocks, even if they were tied up. Remember, he uses chloroform to
dominate them. He's not confident in his physical ability. But in that case,
why doesn't he use chloroform? Put them under and take his time, massaging the
cream into their skin, watching the perfume make their skin shine. Why didn't
he just use the chloroform again?'
Anna shook her head. 'You're talking as if all this is fact, but it's
conjecture. For all you know, maybe he did use chloroform. Or maybe they were
bound. At this stage--'
'No,' he snapped. 'You're missing the point. The question is why didn't he just
use chloroform?'
'Why is it so important for you to understand his reason for not doing
something?'
'Because I need to understand him. Everything about him. What he does isn't
enough. I need to know why.'
'OK, then why didn't he use the chloroform?'
Sean pressed his knuckles into his temples and pressed until he could almost
feel bone grinding against bone. 'I don't know,' he said, pressing harder and
harder, the same question banging in his mind over and over again, making him
forget he was not alone. Then suddenly the answer jumped into his head - an
answer so simple he couldn't believe he'd almost missed it.
'He couldn't use the chloroform because that would ruin everything. If he'd
used it, he wouldn't have been able to smell the cream, the perfume. The
chloroform would have overpowered all other scents - and he couldn't bear that.
It's not enough for them to look like her, they have to smell like her, taste
like her. My God, it must have been heaven for him, watching her spreading the
cream across her skin, the scent of her mixing with the perfume - and all the
time he's standing there, watching her, smelling her.' The smile suddenly fell
from his lips. 'But how does he do that, if he's afraid to be too close to them
unless they're drugged?'
Anna watched him without speaking, not wanting to break the spell he was under,
analysing him as he worked, unwilling and unable to enter the world he'd
retreated to. She resisted the temptation to make notes of what she saw,
instead trying to memorize everything he did.
'How did he watch them? He had to watch them. How did he get close enough to
smell that sweet perfume?' He stared into space, temporarily bewildered by his
own question. 'He can't keep them locked in a cellar, because when he's in
there with them he'd be at risk, Our guy needs to stay in control, which means
he must have them in chains or tied up. But then how would they apply the cream
to themselves? When he first takes them, he adores them, he worships them. He
wouldn't want them in chains or bondage, so how does he manage them? How does
he get close enough to have their scent make him feel alive, properly alive,
wanted and accepted?' He felt like slapping his own face, as if the pain would
draw the answer. 'Does the cellar have a window, so he can safely watch them,
through it? In the door maybe? No. That wouldn't be enough for him, because
he's more than just visually driven. Looking's not going to do it for him, he
needs it all - smell, touch ... Does he speak to them as well? Of course he
does. But how does he do all these things and stay safe?' He put his hands
together, the fingers touching his lips as if he was praying. 'So he needs a
barrier between them and him, but it can't be solid, can't be something that
... that isolates them from him, so if it's not a damn window or a wall then it
has to be ...'
His hands slowly fell from his mouth as he remembered the case of the estate
agent from Birmingham, abducted and held captive inside a wooden cage inside a
garage. A prison within a prison ... 'A cage! He keeps them in a cage, the
cruel son-of-a-bitch. A cage inside a cellar or bunker somewhere. Any time he
wants to feel alive he can just walk into that room and stroll around their
cage in complete safety, watching them, inhaling their scent and dreaming about
the day he'll be with them. But when his illusions fall apart and he needs to
punish them, to force himself on them, he has to go into the cage. He can't use
chloroform, not straight away, because he'd have to get too close, so what does
he do?'
He thought back to the post-mortem, trying to recall the marks he'd seen on
Karen Green's sad, broken body, the multitude of superficial injuries, too many
bruises to count. And then there were those strange little circular bruises,
each with what looked like a burn mark at the centre. He chewed his bottom lip
while Anna looked on, fascinated, aware that he had forgotten she was there and
that he was now talking solely to himself, unpicking lock after lock, each
answer leading to another question, his combination of logic and imagination
leading him through the maze.
Sean's middle finger rhythmically tapped on the desk, subconsciously keeping
pace with his own heartbeat, waiting for the answer. 'He used something to
suppress them, something that meant he could keep his distance and still
control them, something that left those marks.' His finger continued to tap
away on the desk, every implement of wounding, death and torture he'd ever seen
moving through his mind on an imaginary conveyer-belt. 'I need to know what
made those marks.'
Anna broke his trance. 'What marks?'
Sean turned to her, looking at her as if he was seeing a figure from a dream,
something he didn't believe was really there at all. He snatched the phone off
his desk before she could say anything else and called Dr Canning's office
number. He got the answer machine.
'Doctor, it's Sean Corrigan. The circular bruises left on Karen Green's body -
I need to know what caused them sooner rather than later. Run the tests as a
matter of priority and keep me posted.' He hung up without further explanation,
ideas rushing at him now he'd opened Pandora's box. 'Whatever he's using in the
cage, we know how he took them from their houses. They opened the door because
they saw a postman, but as soon as they opened the door he hit them with his
stun-gun and paralysed them. Then he took his time preparing them - that's when
he used the chloroform, when they were beginning to recover. He used it to put
them under, so they couldn't fight, because he's not strong enough to carry or
drag them into the boot of their own car. He's weak and he's a coward and I'm
going to fucking find you.' The phone ringing broke through his swelling rage.
He grabbed it, hoping it would be Canning.
'Mr Corrigan, it's Sergeant Roddis.'
'I'm listening.'
'The unidentified prints found at the Green house and the Russell house
definitely came from the same man. Given that they were both recovered from the
inside door handles we can assume they belong to the killer. They also match
the prints we took from both victims' cars. I took them to Fingerprints myself
and supervised the search. I'm afraid I can confirm they don't match any on
file. Your killer has no previous convictions, not in this country anyway. I've
sent a copy to Interpol, but even for a murder it's going to take days if not
weeks before they get back to us.'
'What about DNA?' Sean asked.
'It'll take a few more days to prepare a full profile, but if he doesn't have
any previous convictions it's still not going to help you find him. It'll
convict him, as will the fingerprints, but it won't identify him.'
'I know, I know.' Sean couldn't contain his frustration. 'Anything else comes
up, let me know.'
'Of course.'
Sean hung up, dissecting the importance of what he'd just learned, not simply
dismissing the lack of previous convictions as a dead end, but cross-examining
it, interrogating it for information and relevance, using it to connect him to
the heart and mind of the man he hunted, thinking silently.
So this one doesn't care about leaving his prints and DNA, because he knows it
can't help us identify him from police records, or because he just doesn't
care? He must know he's leaving enough evidence to convict himself ten times
over, so why be careless?
He suddenly reverted to talking quietly to himself, as if Anna wasn't there.
'He's working to a plan that makes his identification irrelevant. He knows that
sooner or later we'll find him, but he doesn't care. He's not even
comprehending being caught ... He takes the women and keeps them for a week, or
close to, then he takes them from their cage to a place he knows and kills
them. He worships them at first, then he hates them. The same cycle over and
over again, from love to hate, from acceptance to rejection. But he wasn't just
rejected by one person, he was rejected by everyone. He hates everyone?'
His eyes moved from side to side as he began to realize what he was saying.
'These women are a snapshot of his anger and rejection, even if he doesn't know
it himself yet. When he feels me closing in, what will he do? Walk into a high
street, a shopping centre, a school ... and what will he use, a knife,
home-made pipe bombs, a gun? That's why he doesn't care about leaving his
prints, his DNA - subconsciously he's already planned for that day, haven't
you? You're not going to let anyone take you alive. You're going to send
yourself to hell and drag as many others with you as--'
A knock at his door made him spin around, angry at the interruption. If
Featherstone had heard him talking to himself he didn't show it.
'Morning, Sean. Anna.'
'Boss,' Sean addressed him.
'Alan,' said Anna.
Sean's eyebrows rose at the sound of Featherstone's never-used Christian name.
Clearly they were more familiar than he'd realized.
'I'm doing another TV appeal for assistance. Do you have anything new I could
use, either of you? The telly people always like to have new stuff for the
paying public.'
Sean looked at his computer screen, his latest CRIS inquiry still displayed. He
considered telling Featherstone about his stalker theory, asking him to appeal
to anyone who had been harassed in the last two or three years to come forward,
but some instinct and the negative results of his search told him not to.
'Nothing that you'd want to put in a TV appeal,' he said. 'We need to focus our
search efforts on decent-sized properties, or isolated plots of land within a
twenty-mile radius of where the women were taken. It's possible he keeps them
somewhere other than his home - a disused factory or an abandoned smallholding.
Other than that, I don't have anything. Just do the usual, appeal to family,
friends and colleagues who may have noticed anyone behaving strangely lately,
keeping odd hours, disappearing without explanation, not turning up for work.
You never know your luck.'
'No problem,' Featherstone assured him.
'Actually,' Sean suddenly remembered, 'there is one thing.'
'Go on.'
'I'm pretty sure he dresses like a postman. That's how he gets the doors open.
Maybe we could ask the public whether anyone's noticed a postman behaving
strangely, someone who's not their regular postie hanging around an area longer
than usual, putting junk mail through their doors when they'd already asked the
Post Office not to.'
Featherstone sucked in a long breath, shaking his head like a mechanic about to
give an estimate for a car repair. 'Sorry, Sean, no can do. I'd have to get
prior approval from the Post Office before releasing that, and they'd have to
get prior authority from their members' union - and it's unlikely they'll be
given it. Look, it's a pain in the arse, but if we put it out there that this
nutter's going around dressed like a postie, by this time tomorrow we'll
probably have half a dozen postal workers in hospital, stabbed or kicked to
shit by vigilantes or nervous husbands, not to mention the several dozen
that'll be blocking up every casualty in South London waiting to have the CS
gas washed out of their eyes after paranoid women - no offence meant, Anna -
have sprayed them. The postie release is a no-go.'
'I think it's important,' Sean pushed. 'It could stir something in a witness
that they haven't even considered.'
'Sorry, Sean, but it can't happen. Anything else? Anna?'
'I'm absolutely certain he's a local man, or at least someone who knows the
area well or visits it regularly, so I recommend you continue with the
roadblocks and door-to-door inquiries. Also, I agree with DI Corrigan that he
needs somewhere relatively secluded to keep them, so concentrate your searches
around farms, wasteland, derelict buildings, anywhere he could conceal the
women, particularly anything underground.'
'Round here or Central London that wouldn't take long,' Featherstone replied,
'but once you start getting into Bromley and the Kent borders, near where the
women were taken from, there's bloody thousands of places he could keep them.
They don't call it "the sticks" for nothing.'
'Publicize what you're doing,' Anna continued. 'It may panic him into moving
the victim, increasing the chances he'll make a mistake or that someone will
see them and call the police.'
'If you reckon it's worth trying,' Featherstone agreed before turning to Sean.
'What about this suspect I hear you arrested? Judging by the fact you haven't
mentioned it to me, I take it you don't think he's our man?'
'No,' Sean answered quickly, 'he's nothing to do with this. We won't be looking
at him any further.'
'Shame,' Featherstone said. 'Well, must get on. The telly people want to film
me standing outside Scotland Yard, next to that bloody rotating sign. Call me
if anything new comes up.' And then he was gone, leaving them sitting in an
uncomfortable silence until Anna spoke.
'You didn't tell him that you never considered Lawlor responsible.'
'How d'you know I didn't?'
'I've watched you work, Sean. If I could tell he wasn't our guy, then so could
you. The question, is why did you go after him, knowing that?'
'Because he filled some gaps,' Sean confessed, 'allowed me to see some things I
was struggling to understand.'
'To understand or ...?
'To feel.'
'What did he help you feel?'
'Things that were already in me, but buried too deep to use.'
'And he unburied those feelings?'
'No,' Sean answered. 'He just helped me bring them to the surface. Gave me the
taste for what he feels when he's doing what he does.'
'What does he feel? What do you feel?'
'Right now I feel hungry.' He glanced at his watch. 'Grab your coat and I'll
take you for brunch. There's a half-decent cafe not too far away. We'll walk
there. The air will do us both good. Just promise me one thing ...'
'Of course.'
'Don't try and analyse me,' he warned her. 'If I want your help, I'll ask for
it. Understood?'
'Sorry. Occupational hazard.'
'Fair enough. Now, let's go get something to eat.'
The silence in the kitchen was becoming oppressive, allowing his mind too much
room to wander to old, bitter memories of his childhood, the faces of people he
hated, past and present, refusing to let him be at peace, even for a second. He
hurriedly searched through the shambolic kitchen drawer that held, amongst
other things, the CD of a rock band with his favourite song on it. He
remembered the first time he'd heard it, years before and how the lyrics seemed
like they must have been written for him, giving him hope that somebody
understood him - understood what he would eventually do. But unlike the words
of the song, the hope faded and died. Fumbling the disc from its scratched and
cracked cover, he loaded it into the portable CD player he'd bought himself as
a Christmas present, back in the days when he was still trying to cling on to
the belief he could one day live as others did.
Selecting the track he needed to hear, Thomas Keller sat back and waited for
the music to carry him away, the vocals kicking in soon after the intro, his
eyes closing as the beautiful images raced through his mind, a feeling of
indestructible power tightening his every muscle while his heart pumped to the
beat of the song, the singer telling the tale of a boy despised by his mother
and rejected by his father - ignored and ridiculed by the other children at
school and detested by the teachers - just as he had been. He began to lose
himself in the song, seeing himself walking through his old school cutting down
all who'd humiliated him - reaping the sweetest and cruellest revenge as the
dead mounted at his feet. He smiled gently as he mouthed along to the words of
the song until a sudden noise from outside startled him from his dreaming: a
car's wheels moving across the rough gravel, towards his house. He searched for
the off switch to stop the music, accidentally hitting the volume control in
his panic, his favourite song betraying his presence to anyone close enough to
hear. He covered his ears with his hands in a childlike attempt to pretend it
wasn't happening before yanking the plug from the socket. The silence that
followed felt more deafening than the music had been.
He listened, senses alert like a trapped rabbit listening to the fox scratching
around the entrance to its burrow, at first sure he'd been mistaken. But as the
ringing and buzzing cleared from his ears the sound of the approaching car
returned, prompting him to cross the kitchen and carefully peek through the
curtainless window, just able to make out the markings on the police car
through the grease and dirt on the glass. 'Fuck,' he shouted, immediately
clamping his own treacherous mouth shut with his hand, the fear in his belly
making his eyes fill with water. This can't be happening, he told himself. It's
too soon. Not yet. I'm not ready. He crawled across the floor of his kitchen
like a lizard, reaching into the cupboard for the sawn-off double-barrelled
shotgun, snapping it open at the breach, breathing deeply with relief when he
saw it was already loaded with twelve-gauge rounds - if there were two of them
in the car he could kill them both before they even opened their lying pig
mouths.
He walked in a crouch back across the kitchen, rising to glance at the police
car that pulled to a halt some twenty feet from his front door, the two
uniformed figures stepping simultaneously from the vehicle and beginning to
search the area with their eyes without moving from the car. 'Fuck,' he swore
again as he ducked away from the window, whispering to himself repeatedly.
'What do I do? What do I do? What do they know? Maybe they don't know anything.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.' He exhaled and tried to steady himself, calm down enough to
be able to think. After a few seconds he crept to his front door and propped
the shotgun up against the inside wall, within reaching distance of the
entrance. He took a breath and opened the door, the two police officers
immediately turning towards him, apparently unconcerned.
'Can I help you?' Keller managed to ask without stuttering or blurting.
The officers looked at each other before answering, the taller, slimmer one
speaking first.
'Nothing to worry about,' he said, 'we're just checking on some reports that a
prowler was seen around here earlier this morning. Have you noticed anything
yourself, sir?'
'No,' Keller answered, a little too quickly and surely, while trying to work
out if the policeman was lying. He thought he was but couldn't be sure. Not
sure enough to reach for the shotgun only inches away.
'You haven't seen or heard anything?'
'Not around here, no.'
'Is this your place?' the shorter, more heavily muscled one asked.
'Yes.'
'Does anyone else live here?'
'No. I live alone.' He watched the taller one surveying the grounds, noting the
outbuildings and debris, nodding to himself as he did so while the heavier one
began to approach him. Panic rising in his stomach with every step the
policeman took, Keller stepped from his house and walked towards him.
'You've got a lot of land here,' the heavier one remarked. 'Must have cost a
fair bit, eh?'
'Not really. It was land the council repossessed. Nobody else seemed to want
it. I got it quite cheaply.'
'You should sell it to a developer - make a fortune.'
'Maybe,' Keller answered awkwardly, unused to small talk.
'Do you mind if I take your name, sir?'
'Why do you want to know my name?'
'Just so we can have a record that we've spoken to you about the prowler.'
Keller's eyes darted around, spooked by the thought of giving his name to the
police, suspicious they knew more than they were telling him, trying to
convince himself that, if that was the case, they would have sent a small army,
not two uniformed policemen. 'My name? My name is Thomas Keller.'
'Do you have any ID?' the heavier one asked.
'ID? Why do you need that? I'm not the prowler - this is my land.'
'Of course you're not,' the policeman agreed. 'It's routine when we're doing an
inquiry like this to ask for ID from anyone we've spoken to. It's just
procedure. Nothing to worry about.'
'OK,' Keller told him. 'Wait there.' He turned and walked back into the house,
his hand momentarily resting on the stock of the shotgun. The desire to lift
it, walk out into the courtyard and blow their heads off was almost
overpowering, but he managed to pull his hand away and step further inside the
kitchen, where he began to rifle through another cluttered drawer until he
found his driving licence. He moved quickly, desperate to stop the police
getting too close to the house or wandering off, sticking their noses into
places he couldn't let them see. As he stepped outside, fear squeezed the air
from his chest when he realized the taller one was no longer standing by the
car. His head twisted in all directions as he searched for the missing
policeman, finally seeing him casually wandering towards the abandoned battery
chicken shed, peering inside then ducking out, moving deeper into the courtyard
and its derelict buildings.
Keller glanced over his shoulder at the cottage entrance; the shotgun was
close, but too far away to grab and point in a single motion. Besides, the
policemen were now too far apart. By the time he'd shot one, the other would
have escaped into the surrounding woods to radio for help, then it would be
over for him. Even if he managed to chase the cop down and shoot him like a
dog, the world would know.
'Are you looking for something?' he called to the policeman in the courtyard.
'The prowler, remember? You don't mind if I have a look around, do you? There's
a lot of places a man could hide out here.'
'No,' Keller managed to lie. 'Look all you want. Can I get you a drink?' he
asked, trying to imagine what would be a normal thing to say. 'I could make
some tea, if you like.'
'We're fine thanks,' the heavier one dismissed him. 'Do you have any
underground buildings on the land, sir? Any bomb shelters or coal cellars?'
Keller swallowed hard before lying. 'No. No I don't.'
'Probably best,' the heavier uniform replied. 'Those old shelters can be
dangerous - especially for kids.'
'I suppose so,' Keller managed to answer, forcing himself to step away from the
door of his cottage and walk to the cop asking the questions, handing him his
driving licence. 'Will this do?'
The policeman studied it for a few seconds then handed it back. 'That's fine,
sir.'
They stood next to each other, silently watching the taller policeman as he
crossed the courtyard heading for the shed-like construction that concealed the
staircase leading to the cellar. In his anxiety and terror Keller had a moment
of clarity, a vision of exactly what he would do if the tall one reached the
padlocked door, if he asked for the key to the lock. He would tell him the key
was inside and that he'd fetch it. Once in the cottage he would retrieve the
shotgun and slowly walk back into the courtyard. He'd kill the heavier one, but
he'd let the other one go, let him tell the world what he'd found. It wouldn't
matter any more. He'd do what he had to do to the women in the cellar and then
he'd go on to take care of the other business he needed to attend to.
The taller one was only feet away from the cellar door now, and the calmness of
resignation swept over Keller, making him feel more at peace in that moment
than he'd felt in years, maybe in his entire life. Suddenly a disembodied voice
cut through the silence and shattered his tranquillity and certainty. 'All unit
response please. Police officer requires urgent assistance in Keston High
Street. Repeat, urgent assistance Keston High Street.' Their radios sounded in
stereo, the distance the policemen stood apart producing a slight echo effect.
They looked at each other, the heavier one nodding to his colleague to confirm
he understood their telepathic message. He pressed the transmit switch on his
radio and spoke.
'Kilo Kilo Two-Two will take that. We're only a couple of minutes away.'
'Thank you, Kilo Kilo Two-Two, we'll show you running.'
The taller one was already moving quickly back to the car as the heavier one
began to climb into the passenger seat. 'Looks like we're on our way,' he said,
'but thanks for your help. Remember, if you see anything suspicious, let us
know.'
'I will,' Keller lied, his heart almost exploding inside his chest as he waited
for them to leave, the thrill of seeing them drive away instantly replaced by
utter terror and rage at the thought they might know who he really was, that
they might just be playing games with him. He ran inside and grabbed the
shotgun without breaking stride, pacing across the kitchen to the main
cupboard, filling his pockets with as many cartridges as he could find before
storming from the house and heading towards the cellar and the woman who'd
somehow managed to betray him to the police, his plans for what he must do
running through his darkening mind as he walked. He saw himself raising the
shotgun, aiming it at the treacherous bitch's face, his finger smoothly pulling
the trigger, the bitch's brains and pieces of skull exploding from the back of
her head.
Then would come the hard part, the thing he had to do more than wanted to, but
he wouldn't leave Sam for them to take again, to fill with their poisonous
lies. He would get close enough to shoot her through the chest, leaving her
face untouched. He prayed she wouldn't move as he pulled the trigger, unable to
stand the thought of her screaming, wounded and in agony. Better for her if she
doesn't move, if she understands why he has to do it for her.
Then he would get in his car and drive to work where he would hunt down his
tormentors one by one, dragging them from their hiding places and blowing them
all to hell. But he'd have to keep moving, stay ahead of the police, make sure
he still had enough time to reach his old school, and then the children's home
before paying his mother a final visit, at the place where he'd discovered she
worked, saving the last cartridge for her, shooting her through her hateful
face. And then all he'd have to do is sit down and wait for the police with
guns to arrive, wait for them to call to him, demand he throw the gun out and
walk towards them with his arms raised. But he wouldn't do that. He'd walk out
with his shotgun pointed straight at them, and then it would be over and
everybody would know his name.
As he neared the cellar his pace began to slow and with it his mind and the
dark thoughts of revenge against those who'd wronged him. The idea of having to
kill Sam just as they were growing closer to the time when they would be
together, when she would love him and accept him, was unbearable. Maybe he was
being too hasty, assuming they knew much more than they did. He stopped and
stood in the middle of the courtyard, listening for unfamiliar sounds, his body
turning through three hundred and sixty degrees as he searched the surrounding
trees and scrubland for signs of the police closing in on him. He could see
nothing, hear nothing. He exhaled, expelling stale air and the anger that had
almost driven him too far, and headed back to his house, calm and in control,
assuring himself he wouldn't be panicked into attacking before he was ready. It
was fate that the police had left without finding the cellar, a clear sign that
things would happen as he'd seen they would - as he'd planned they would. He,
and only he, would decide when everything would end.
As the patrol car bumped along the drive, PC Ingram glanced in the wing mirror
at Thomas Keller returning to his derelict property. 'I can't believe anyone
could actually live in a dump like that,' he said.
'If it was me, I'd build a couple of houses on it and make a few quid,' agreed
PC Adams.
'He was a bit jumpy though, wasn't he?'
'Maybe, but he seemed harmless enough. Didn't come charging at us with an axe
in one hand and his cock in the other.'
'No, he didn't do that,' Ingram agreed, 'but maybe we should have checked the
other buildings?'
'That wasn't our brief,' Adams reminded him. 'They just want us to find
possible locations this woman could be at and pass the information on to CID.
If they want to, they can get a warrant and search it properly.'
'I know,' said Ingram, 'but I would have liked a look around all the same.'
'We've got another dozen places to check before lunch, on top of this urgent
assist. You won't be so keen to go sniffing around them after we've done that
lot and filled in the reports.'
'Maybe not.'
'Like I said, let CID sort it out.'
'I didn't realize Peckham had places like this,' Anna remarked as she surveyed
the tasteful cafe that sold decent coffee and reasonable food.
'Probably not what you're used to, but I like it well enough.'
'No, I mean it. It's very nice.'
'It doesn't bother me what you think. It's not like I own the place.'
'Good to know my opinion means so much to you.'
'I'll be honest with you, Anna, the only opinion that really matters to me is
my own.'
'Such as, in your opinion the man who took these women is slowly but surely
spiralling out of control?'
'Something like that.'
'I noticed you didn't share that opinion with Superintendent Featherstone.'
'He wouldn't understand.'
'Don't you think you should have tried?'
'He's a good enough cop, but he's two-dimensional. He only deals with what's in
front of him. He wouldn't understand.'
'I can't say I understand your theory myself. I see no evidence he'll turn from
micro-dramas and personalized victim selection and abuse to something more
expressive and grandiose. Also I don't see him as self-destructive.'
'He's not - yet,' said Sean. 'But he's turning that way. When he feels me
around the corner he'll blow up. I promise you.'
'I suppose we'll have to agree to disagree. All the same, I find your insights
very interesting. Have you ever studied psychology?'
He almost choked on a mouthful of coffee and pastry, coughing drily for several
seconds before he was able to answer.
'I don't have time for other people's theories,' he said. 'Everything I know,
I've learned out here, in the real world, dealing with lunatics like Sebastian
Gibran. Trust me, when you're chasing down these people, you learn fast - and
you'd better be right or there'll be hell to pay. There's no time to sit around
for weeks writing theses for other academics to argue the toss over. No
offence, but if you get it wrong, who cares? I get it wrong, at best I'll end
up spending the rest of my career in the back of beyond. At worst I'm on Sky
News in the evening and on trial for God knows what a few months later.'
'Surely not?'
'You don't believe me? Listen, it's always the police's fault. At the end of
the day, no matter what, we'll get the blame. We're an easy scapegoat. Stephen
Lawrence is murdered by a gang of racist thugs - it's our fault. A bunch of
anarchists smash up the West End - it's our fault because we were too soft. A
student gets badly injured on a protest march - it's our fault because we were
too heavy-handed. The News of the World hacks into the phones of
publicity-hungry celebrities who probably love the attention - guess what, it's
our fault for not investigating it sooner. We don't catch this psychopath
before he kills again - it'll be my fault.'
He took an angry bite from his pastry, eyes fixed on Anna as if challenging her
to refute his claims. When she remained silent, he continued, 'Have you any
idea what it's like, working day after day with practically no sleep, forcing
yourself to keep going and going, having to tell your wife and your children
you won't be seeing them till God knows when. And then, when you finally get
the job done and the baddy's locked up nice and tight, when you finally get to
go home you turn the TV on and what's the first thing you see? Politicians
telling the world it was the police's fault, that heads will roll. They never
mention the good stuff we do, the personal risks we take for the sake of total
strangers, the thousands of seriously nasty bastards we take off the streets
every year. Sometimes it makes you want to chuck it all in, walk away.'
'I'd never thought about like that,' Anna confessed. 'It can't be easy.'
'No. No it's not.'
'How do you feel when you see the news coverage of murder cases?'
'You're not trying to analyse me again, are you?'
'No. Just interested in a police perspective.'
'They make me angry,' he said. 'They treat it like a reality show, titillation
for the masses. If they'd ever been inside a real murder scene, on their own,
before it had been cleaned up, they wouldn't sound so excited. You can tell
they've never had the taste of death in their mouths. It lingers for days, no
matter how many times you brush your teeth or rinse with mouthwash. But then
again, how many people have? Have you?'
'I want to ask you a question, Sean, and obviously you don't have to answer it
if you don't want to.'
'I can't stop you asking it.'
'Did something happen to you, when you were younger?'
'No,' he lied.
'Some trauma perhaps, a serious injury or critical situation you encountered
while doing your job?'
'Plenty, but no one thing. Why?'
'Sometimes you display the traits of someone suffering from a type of
post-traumatic-stress syndrome.'
'I don't think so.'
'It's as if your insights are driven more by memory than imagination.'
She was getting too close and he didn't like it. 'You want to know if I can
think like the people I spend my life trying to catch? The answer is yes,' he
told her. 'But if you want to know how I do it, then I'm sorry, the answer is I
don't know. Am I comfortable with it? No - but if I can use it to save lives
and lock up some very bad people then I'll use it, no matter how uncomfortable
it is.'
'That kind of self-sacrifice can be damaging. Who looks after you while you're
looking after everybody else?'
'My wife. My children. Myself.'
'Sounds a little insular.'
'To you maybe. Not to me.'
'You don't like talking about yourself, do you?'
'No, I don't, so let's not. Besides, I've found a way you can finally be useful
to me.' He didn't stop to think how that sounded.
'Wow, thanks.'
'You've spoken to DS Jones?'
'Sally? Yes.'
'You know what happened to her. You read the report, before you interviewed
Gibran.'
'I did, but anything Sally may have told me would be subject to patient
confidentiality. I can't discuss it with anyone.'
'Appreciated, but all I want to know is whether there's a serious problem
there. Am I doing the right thing by letting her come to work, or should I
re-think things?'
'Isolation won't help her, but I can't say anything else. Understand?'
'Understood. Loud and clear.'
'Just don't put her in harm's way or expect too much from her.'
'I won't, but don't underestimate her.' He glanced at his watch. 'Listen, I
appreciate the time out and the heads-up about Sally, but as you know, I'm
standing in the middle of a storm here.'
'And you need to get back to work.'
'Sorry.' He stood to leave, then paused, remembering the thing that had been
playing on his mind since they'd first met. 'I almost forgot - there's
something I've been meaning to ask you.'
'I'm intrigued.'
'Did Sebastian Gibran ever discuss James Hellier with you? His real name was
Stefan Korsakov, but Gibran would have known him as Hellier.'
'He did. Hellier was the one he blamed his crimes on - said he'd set him up,
that he'd obviously spent years studying him so the police would think it was
him and not Hellier who was the killer. Hellier seemed to be the focal point of
his paranoid delusions.'
'Clever bastard,' Sean told her. 'He switched the truth around. It was him who
was using Hellier.'
'So the police reports said.'
'You mean what my report said?' She didn't answer. 'He was an interesting
character, James Hellier. I bet you would have liked to have had a chance to
interview that one. You could have written a whole book about him.'
'Why don't you tell me about him?'
'I can tell you that when I first met him I hated him. Then I was scared of
him. But ultimately he saved my life ...' As if realizing he had let down his
guard and come close to confiding, he broke off. When he spoke again, it was in
his usual clipped, businesslike tone. 'Truth is, I don't really know how I feel
about him. Time to go.' He stretched out a hand to pick up the bill from its
china plate, but Anna made a grab for it.
'I'll get this,' she insisted, their fingers touching as they reached the plate
at the same time, their eyes simultaneously flashing towards each other. Sean
remained expressionless despite the sudden excitement he felt stirring inside
him. He pulled his hand away, taking the bill with it.
'My treat,' he told her.
As Thomas Keller descended the stone stairs the syringe containing the
alfentanil rolled from side to side on the tray. Keeping his thumb pressed on
the precious transfer to prevent it from slipping away, he gave Louise
Russell's cage little more than a cursory glance as he crossed the room and
crouched down beside Deborah Thomson. 'I think it's time, Sam,' he said. 'We've
both been patient long enough.' He placed the tray on the floor and picked up
the transfer of the phoenix, showing it to her, anticipation and excitement
coursing through him, and pride, pride at having rescued her from all the liars
and manipulators. 'This is for you,' he continued, rolling up his sleeve to
show her his identical tattoo, shaking the paper the transfer was stuck to,
ensuring she was looking at it. 'This isn't a permanent one - you can have that
done later, but this will do for now. Once you have this, we can be together,
properly together.'
Her eyes moved from the ugly transfer to the syringe containing the clear
liquid. Louise had told her he might use some type of anaesthetic on her. And
then he'd apply the transfer to her arm, and then he'd come into her cage and
he'd do things to her, things that horrified her, just as Louise had told her
he would. She looked at the amount of liquid in the syringe, her nursing
experience telling her it was almost certainly not enough to fully anaesthetize
her, meaning he wanted her conscious. She forced herself to speak. 'I need to
get washed first,' she said. 'If we're going to be together, then I want to be
clean, for you.'
His eyes dilated fully before shrinking to black holes, his body shaking,
almost unable to deal with her sudden acceptance of him. He frantically
scratched at his forehead with the fingernails of his right hand, biting his
bottom lip hard enough to draw a little blood that seeped into the tiny lines
of the thin skin. 'OK,' he agreed. 'Of course, but forgive me, I need to make
you safe first, for your own protection, you understand.'
'What do you mean?' she asked. 'What are you going to do to me?'
'I'm going to protect you,' he said, a confused look on his face, as if he
couldn't understand why she sounded so concerned and afraid. 'I would never
hurt you, Sam.' She accidentally looked past him towards Louise, and his head
whipped around to catch what she was looking at. Louise quickly looked away,
hoping he hadn't noticed the silent communication between them. 'What's she
been saying?' he asked Deborah, his lips pale, eyes burning with hatred. 'She's
been poisoning you against me, hasn't she? Fucking with your head, filling it
with her lies.'
'No,' Deborah told him, 'she hasn't said anything and I wouldn't believe her
anyway. This is about us, not her. Forget her, please.'
'I know how to punish dirty little whores like her.' His words made Louise
shrink into the furthest corner of her cage, her lips beginning to tremble as
he moved towards her, fumbling in his tracksuit trousers for his stun-gun.
'Forget her,' Deborah called to him. 'It's me you want to be with and I want to
be with you. She's nothing to us.' He stopped and turned back towards her, the
fire of anger dampened by the expression of affection and desire.
'You're right,' he said. 'She's nothing.'
'Good,' Deborah encouraged him like an obedient dog. 'You were going to let me
out, remember, so I can wash.'
'Yes. Yes, of course.' He took the key from his pocket, moved to her cage door
and began to unlock it, then stopped short, years of self-preservation kicking
in, saving him. 'I'm sorry. I almost forgot. Before I let you out I need you to
do one thing for me.'
'What?' she asked nervously, too many horrifying images flashing through her
mind to focus on one in particular. She swallowed the vomit rising in her mouth.
'I need you to put your hands through the hatch.'
'Why?'
'You have to trust me, Sam. You have to learn to trust me.' He opened the hatch
and waited for her to obey him. She knew she had to do it, or soon she would
become Louise and then she would become Karen Green - nothing but a memory to
those who loved her. Tears rolled from the corners of her eyes, but she managed
to stifle her sobbing and hide her fear of him as she slid her hands through
the hatch. She fought the desperate desire to look away, instead staring into
his eyes, trying to push her mouth into a smile. He smiled back as he took a
length of nylon wire from the pocket of his tracksuit top. She watched as he
wound the wire around and around her wrists, tightly enough so she could feel
the blood welling in her hands, but not so painful as to make her struggle and
betray herself. Once the wire was wrapped around her wrists several times he
twisted the loose ends as if he was securing a freezer bag. 'There,' he
announced. 'Not too tight is it?'
'No,' she forced herself to say. 'It's fine. Thank you.'
He wiped the sweat from his hands on to the back of his trousers and moved
slowly to the cage door, turning the key that he'd left in the lock and
swinging it open, one hand lifting the tray from the floor while the other
snaked inside, offering her assistance. She placed her hands on his and let him
guide her from the cage, praying that Louise was watching and ready as she
allowed him to lead her across the room. She followed him behind the screen to
the sink, his hand uncoiling from hers, placing the tray with the syringe on
the little table as he stepped back, but only a few feet, watching her, licking
the drying blood from his swelling lips. She looked away from him and turned
the tap on, the screeching of the old metal soon replaced by the sound of
running water. 'I don't want to get my clothes wet,' she said.
He looked confused. 'Don't worry. Just wash your face for now.'
'But I want to be properly clean for you,' she insisted, calculating how best
to play him. 'I want to be as pure as I can for you. If you untie me I can take
these clothes off, then I can wash everywhere.'
He felt his testicles begin to coil and tighten. The thought of watching her
willingly undress and bathe in front of him, the water running down her slim
body, following her curves, made him forget his caution. He stepped forward to
untie her. But as he held her wrists he stopped, looking from Deborah to the
pitiful figure crouched in the corner of the other cage, then back to Deborah.
She sensed him hesitate. 'You can watch,' she told him. 'You can watch me wash
myself. I don't mind.'
'No,' he said, stepping back. 'It's not safe for you yet. Some of their poison
may still be in you.'
Deborah knew her face betrayed her disappointment and only hoped he
misinterpreted it, that his sick mind actually thought she was saddened by his
physical rejection. 'You're right,' she lied. 'Let's be careful.' She began to
cup water in her bound hands, bringing it up to wash her face, trying to sense
his position. Carefully she dabbed her fingers on to the bar of soap and
pretended to massage it into her face. 'Ow,' she suddenly winced.
'Are you OK?' he asked. 'Is something wrong?'
'My eyes,' she complained. 'I've got soap in my eyes. It really stings. I can't
see.' He felt anxiety begin to creep up his spine, thin strands reaching
through the bone and wrapping themselves around his spinal cord, transmitting
the sense of panic to every sinew in his being, freezing him where he stood,
smelling a trap, but unable to overcome his instinct to help the woman he
loved. 'Please,' she implored him, 'I need a towel. My eyes are really
burning.' Tears of frustration and sorrow blurred his vision and he moved
towards her, snatching the towel from the screen and handing it to her
searching fingers, smiling as she rubbed the cloth into her eyes, the pain
clearly easing.
'Is that better?' he asked.
'Yes. Thank--' Deborah broke off mid-sentence, slamming her right knee into his
groin. It connected with his testicles, bending him double. Memories of
childhood fights with her brothers flooded back to her. Only this time she
wouldn't be pulling any punches - not when her life depended on winning. She
drew her knee back again and launched it towards his face, aiming for the
bridge of his nose. He saw it coming and moved just in time, but the knee still
connected powerfully with the side of his face, splitting the inside of his
cheek wide open and loosening several teeth. He coughed on the blood that ran
down his throat and struggled to keep his bearings, feeling nails gouging and
scratching at his eyes. By the time he realized the onslaught had stopped it
was too late, the searing pain in the side of his neck replaced everything
else, making him moan and whimper like a wounded animal. His hand shook as it
moved to the source of his agony.
Deborah released the syringe, leaving it embedded in the side of his neck.
She'd aimed for his jugular but missed, although she'd still forced the liquid
into his body, praying that if it was an anaesthetic it would at least slow him
down, even if she hadn't pumped it straight into his bloodstream. The sight of
him bloodied and wounded, pawing at the syringe that hung from his neck was
both appalling and terrifying. Her will to survive was screaming at her to run
before the tide turned, before his rage made him rise again with the strength
of a madman, adrenalin driving him forward through his pain.
A woman's voice cried out from behind her: 'Get the key, Deborah. Get the key!'
Louise was clawing the wire of her cage door, trying to shake it open with what
little strength she had left in her body after days without food or water.
Deborah looked from the woman to the wounded beast crawling on the floor, still
trying to pull the syringe from its neck. The muscles had constricted around
the needle, making it difficult to budge. The smell of fresh air drifted down
the stairs and into her face, fuelling the urge to run. 'Hit him again and get
me out of here. Deborah. Deborah,' Louise screamed, sensing the other woman's
intentions.
'I'm sorry,' Deborah mouthed at her. 'I'm so sorry ...' And then she ran. She
ran past the wretch on the floor, who made a grab for her ankle, the touch of
his damp skin making her squeal more than scream. But his grip was weak and he
couldn't stop her. When she got to the stairs, she tried to climb them three at
a time, but her bound hands threw her off balance and she fell forward, both
shins crashing into the harsh edge of a stone stair, the pain making her call
out as she dragged herself back to her feet, running up the stairs again,
trying to be more careful. Fear of what was behind her made her reckless and
uncoordinated as she grew closer and closer to the oblong of light above, its
brightness making the tears sting her eyes so painfully she had to close them.
And all the while Louise's voice screamed after her:
'You fucking bitch. Don't leave me. You can't leave me here. I hope you die,
you fucking bitch. I hope he fucking kills you. I hope he fucking kills you.'
The staircase felt like an unconquerable mountain as she stumbled up the last
few stairs, slipping again, smashing her kneecap, the pain as it fractured
punching the remaining breath from her chest. Gripping the knee in both hands,
she tried to squeeze the pain from it. Movement in her peripheral vision drew
her eyes down into the darkness: a shape was emerging from the gloom below and
beginning to climb the stairs, lolling from side to side, arms outstretched,
feeling for the walls either side of the staircase as if drunk or blind, his
head too heavy to lift. She didn't have the strength to scream, the only sound
that escaped her mouth was an exhausted whimper as she pulled herself to her
feet, the injured knee rendering one leg little more than useless as she tried
to run.
Deborah burst into the light, temporarily blinded by the bright sunshine,
unable to see the sharp stones beneath her bare feet that cut through her thin
skin. She staggered forward, her broken knee suddenly collapsing, her
outstretched hands breaking the fall. As her vision returned she searched the
door for a lock, but found only a flapping latch, the padlock that locked it
missing, still down there, in the darkness with him, the darkness where she had
abandoned Louise Russell to her fate. She slammed the door shut anyway and
tried to run across the littered courtyard, unfamiliar objects making her trip
and stumble. A jagged lump of concrete protruding from the ground caught the
foot of her injured leg, sending a jolt of pain up through her bones and into
the knee, dropping her to the floor. Barely able to see for tears, she searched
the ground for a makeshift weapon or a crutch. Finding neither, she looked back
to the cellar door. Despite all the pain and effort, she'd travelled less than
twenty feet. Her scream shattered the quiet of the spring morning as the door
burst open and her captor fell into the light, the syringe still obscenely
protruding from his neck as he shook his head violently from side to side,
trying to dispel the effects of the anaesthetic.
Squinting against the effects of the alfentanil and the sunlight, Keller
steadied himself, his eyes drawn by the sudden movement of Deborah scrambling
to her feet. He lunged towards her, swaying from side to side as he used the
oil drums to steady himself, his prey little more than a hazy figure that
seemed to his confused mind to be moving in slow motion, as if they were both
trapped in a nightmare where they were running through treacle or glue.
But the gap between them was shrinking. Deborah's injured knee couldn't support
her weight, so she hobbled, dragging it after her, on feet that were cut and
bleeding from the stones and broken glass that littered the yard. Her eyes were
frantically scanning the area for help, but there was no road with passing
traffic, no neighbouring houses, just an ugly cottage that she instinctively
knew was his home. She decided her only hope was to carry on along the uneven
dirt road and hope that it would lead her away from this hell, but he was
gaining on her, his unsteady footsteps louder. Still she kept moving, tears
streaming from her eyes, until finally she sensed he was right behind her,
fingers like tendrils reaching out to grab her.
Filling her lungs, Deborah readied herself for one desperate scream, but the
searing pain that ripped into the base of her spine stole the last of her
resistance and sent her crashing to the stony ground, the electricity from the
stun-gun reverberating through every sinew of her body.
Hands clutched at her clothes and pulled her over on to her back. Her
unblinking eyes fixed on the face hovering above her, contorted in a grimace of
agony as he tugged at the syringe, the skin of his neck stretching until at
last the metal spike came free. He threw it as far as he could, the momentum of
his swinging arm throwing him off balance as the alfentanil continued to impede
his motor-skills. He screamed a primeval yell into the bright, clear sky and
dropped to his knees next to her, resting his head on her chest, his hand
gently stroking her hair as he sobbed. 'You shouldn't have done that, Sam,' he
whispered. 'You shouldn't listen to their lies. I'm the only one who really
loves you. I'm the only one who really knows you. This is your home.'
The convulsions of the body underneath him gradually slowed, her arms and legs
beginning to bend and move slightly as they came back to life, but her muscles
were exhausted. She tried to push him off her, but her weak limbs made it seem
more like an embrace. He lifted his head from her chest and moved towards her
face. He wiped her tears and mucus away with his thumbs and began to kiss her
face softly, each kiss lingering on her skin as if it would be the last kiss he
ever gave, the salt of her sweat and tears making his bloodied lips sting and
effervesce exquisitely, a sensation he'd never experienced before, except with
her, except with Sam, so long ago he'd almost forgotten.
Pushing himself away, he slipped a hand under her and draped her arm over his
shoulder, hauling her to her feet, but he had to bear most of her weight along
with his own, dragging her back towards the cellar, her injured leg trailing
behind them as they walked like two injured soldiers, one helping the other.
'Come on,' he said, 'before anyone sees you. Hold on to me. I won't let you go.
I promise I'll never let you go.' She wanted to push him away, to knock him to
the floor and cave his skull in with the nearest brick or rock, but she
couldn't; her body was too weak from her injuries and the after-effects of the
brutal electric shock, her adrenalin spent.
As they moved closer to the cellar door Deborah felt her numb body gradually
coming back to life. Though still weak and slow to respond, her muscles were
beginning to heed the commands of her mind. And while she was growing stronger,
he was weakening, drained by the effort of dragging her. But if her recovery
continued at its current pace she was afraid it would be too late to save her;
she could picture the cage door slamming shut just as she felt strong enough to
overpower him. As the doorway loomed in front of them, her jaw unfroze enough
for her to mumble, 'No,' her free hand stretching out, fingers grasping and
holding the door frame, jolting them both to a halt once the slack in her arm
had been fully extended. 'No,' she repeated, her words becoming clearer. 'Not
down there, please.' He pulled at her arm, but she wouldn't let go, fear
lending her strength.
Realizing he was running out of time and strength, but reluctant to use the
stun-gun on her again and leave himself with a dead weight to carry down the
stairs, Keller lashed out in blind panic, sinking his teeth into the fingers
that were clutching the door frame. He bit hard and deep into her knuckles, the
serrated ends of his sharp teeth gnawing at her skin and bones, the coppery
taste of warm blood seeping across his tongue. The primal brutality of his
actions seemed to fire life and strength into Keller. The louder she screamed,
the harder he bit, his teeth struggling to find purchase on the slippery bones
of her fingers, his throat pulsing as he swallowed the blood welling in his
mouth.
Unable to hold on any longer, Deborah released her grip on the door frame,
sending them both plunging through the doorway and down the first few stairs,
their limbs tangled together like two erotic dancers, neither making a sound,
neither calling out in pain as their bodies jarred and bounced off the hard
steps that battered and bruised them as they fell. When they finally came to a
stop, he was lying on top of her, his face millimetres from hers, their breath
mixing together to make one sickly-sweet scent. For a second their eyes met,
each as terrified as the other, an understanding between them that they were
engaged in a fight for their lives.
Her blows came in a torrent, her legs and knees trapped under his, bucking and
kicking as hard as they could, her weakly clenched fists pummelling the top and
sides of his head, intermittently turning into scratching talons searching for
his eyes. His skin burned with the searing pain of broken, jagged nails tearing
at the soft flesh of his face. He squealed and screeched in pain, peering
through the thin slits of his eyes, trying to catch her flailing arms by the
wrists.
He hadn't wanted to hurt her, not his beloved Sam, but she was clearly still
full of their poison and her attempted escape and her renewed violence towards
him had all but pushed his compassion away. It retreated into the depths of his
soul, replaced by the anger that had always simmered so close to the surface.
His fury gave him a new-found strength, his squeals turning into a roar as he
gripped the hair on top of her head and dragged her mercilessly down the
stairs, backwards and head first, her backbone and ribs crunching into the edge
of each step until at last the ground beneath her flattened out. Tightening his
grip on her hair, he hauled her across the cellar floor, her good leg
desperately trying to find purchase, to resist their progress. Her struggling
jerked his shoulder, the pain increasing his anger. He pulled his foot back as
far as he could without overbalancing and kicked her in the spine halfway down
her back, the agony making her entire body arch. Inch by inch he dragged her
closer to the cage that she'd escaped from only minutes earlier.
Words spluttered from her mouth, minute flecks of her blood and spit leaving a
treasure trove of forensic evidence on his skin, clothes and hair, evidence
that might one day bury her executioner, but meaningless to her now. 'Please,
you fucking animal, let me go, please. I won't tell anyone, please. I'll kill
you, let me go or I swear I'll kill you. Let me fucking go.'
Breaking his own rules of self-preservation, he backed into the cage first. Too
tired to pull her in one fluid motion, he tried to do it bit by bit, yanking
her by the hair, as if he was shifting an old trunk that was too heavy for him,
ignoring the sounds of her scalp beginning to tear away from her skull. As he
pulled her across the threshold of the wire cell and collapsed into a sitting
position, her hands suddenly flew out and gripped the sides of the cage's
entrance, her eyes clenched tight shut against the agonizing pain in her scalp.
'I won't go in there! I won't!' she screamed, her pitch so high her words were
barely intelligible, her knuckles turning white she gripped the frame. 'No.
No,' she cried as he jerked at her hair, the intense pain only strengthening
her grip on the frame of the cage's door, fear of sinking into the abyss
driving her determination to survive.
His strength was beginning to fail when he remembered that the stun-gun was
still in his tracksuit pocket. Making sure that she was halfway inside the
prison, he untangled his fingers from her hair and felt himself immediately
being pulled towards the entrance, the woman's strength surpassing his own now,
inching them both back through the cage door. His hand thrust into his pocket
and quickly found the small plastic box, euphoria and panic breaking over him
in equal waves. There was no need to consider his next act. He knew this was
his only chance. He pulled the stun-gun from his pocket and stabbed it into the
side of her neck, pressing the dual control switches to fire the current into
her body, forcing it against her skin far longer than he needed to subdue her
as he watched her straight, stiff body convulse and writhe. Finally he stopped
the flow of electricity and pulled the stun-gun away, thrusting it back in his
pocket, no time to waste, letting go of her hair and grabbing her by the
clothing around her shoulders. With one last effort he heaved her into the cage.
He slumped against the wire and wiped the sweat from his brow with his shirt
sleeve, smiling and quietly laughing to himself. As he studied the woman lying
in front of him, the laughter turned to sobs. Blinking away heavy tears, he
reached out to touch her convulsing body. Gently stroking her hair, he murmured
'Look what they made you do.' Then, as the stinging pain in his face reminded
him of his own injuries: 'Look what they made you do to me - trying to turn us
against each other, just like they did before. Just like they'll always try and
do, Sam. But I won't let them take you. I'll never let them take you.' She
mumbled a reply, but he couldn't understand the obscenities she tried to spit
at him. 'Rest,' he told her. 'You should rest now.'
He crawled from the cage and locked it behind him, pulling himself upright,
heaving in lungfuls of air to feed his exhausted muscles before staggering to
the stairs and beginning his ascent to the daylight, each step a mountain,
until finally the cool spring air revived him sufficiently that he was able to
snap the padlock into place and walk slowly, carefully across the courtyard.
Submerged in a tide of sorrow and loss, he couldn't hold back the tears. When
he made it to his ugly little cottage, he fell to his knees and crawled across
the floor to the cabinet. He took out the shotgun and thrust the barrels
between his teeth, resting his thumb across the double triggers, teeth clanking
against the metal as he tried to control the terrible sound coming from deep
within him. He bit down hard on the barrels and tried to force his thumb to
press the triggers, but it refused to move. He screamed into the room, his
words turned to an incoherent babble by the cold metal tubes obscuring the
movement of his tongue, the meaning clear only inside his mind: 'Please. I
can't do this any more. I want to end this,' he pleaded with himself. 'Just
fucking do it, you fucking coward!'
But he couldn't, not yet. As much as he thought he wanted to take his own life,
deep inside his tortured soul he wasn't ready. He wouldn't end it until they
had suffered more, until they knew he had the power to shatter their lives, to
make them pay for all the years he'd had to survive alone in the jungle of
children's homes and vast, anonymous London state schools, preyed upon by the
strong, ostracized by the other children who treated him like a leper.
His thumb eased off the triggers as he slowly slid the barrels from his mouth,
their ends wet and shiny from his saliva and tears. He uncocked the gun's
hammers with the barrels still pointing towards his face and threw it across
the vinyl floor where it slid to rest under his kitchen table. He buried his
face in his hands and keeled over on to his side, lying on the floor sobbing
like an infant, overwhelmed by emotions he could neither understand nor
control. In the midst of this self-loathing he drew a hand away from his face
and down his shivering body, fingers working their way under his waistband and
inside his underwear, his shrivelled member slowly swelling as his hand gripped
it and began to stroke up and down, faster and faster, images of the women from
the cages flashing in his mind, their lips, skin, breasts and pubic triangles -
their scent. His snivelling turning to moans of pleasure as their images mixed
with other scenes playing in his head, pictures inspired by his favourite song:
the story of one boy's bloody revenge.
10
Sean sat in his office poring over information reports gathered from
roadblocks, open-ground searches and every other aspect of the investigation.
Anna sat to his side having insisted on reading each piece of paper his eyes
passed over, her presence tolerated only because she worked quickly and
quietly, never interrupting him and thus derailing a train of thought. Instead
it was the phone ringing loudly on his desk that made him jump and scramble
back to the real world. Annoyed at the disturbance, he snatched it up and
barked his name into the receiver. 'Sean Corrigan. What is it?' The voice on
the other end didn't seem to have taken offence.
'Sir, DC Croucher speaking - Paul Croucher from Lambeth Borough CID.' The name
meant nothing to Sean. 'I understand you're interested in missing persons?'
'Only of a particular type,' Sean pointed out.
'How does white, female, about five foot six, twenty-seven years old, slim
build, shortish brown hair, green eyes sound?'
'I'm listening.'
'Deborah Thomson, a nurse at St George's Hospital in Tooting, home address 6
Valley Road, Streatham. She left work some time after 2 p.m. yesterday, hasn't
been seen since. She failed to turn up for an evening out with friends and this
morning she failed to turn up for breakfast with her new boyfriend. He's the
one who reported her missing after he got no reply on her home and mobile
numbers. No answer at her home address either and her car's gone. He called
around her friends and found out she'd stood them up too, which is when he came
down to the nick and reported it. Interested?'
'Do you have a photograph of her?'
'We do.'
'Can you email it to me?'
'No problem.'
'Stay on the line while you do it,' said Sean. 'I need to see her face before I
make a decision.' But the sick, tightening feeling in his stomach already told
him his worst fears had been realized.
'I'm sending it now,' DC Croucher confirmed. Sean pulled up his emails on the
screen and waited for the message to appear in his inbox. A few seconds later
it jumped straight to the top of his unread list. As quickly as he could, he
directed the arrow to the New Mail and double-clicked. There was no text,
simply an attached document. He double-clicked again and waited for his
antiquated hard drive to produce a picture on the screen. After what seemed
like minutes the image of a young, attractive woman jumped on to his monitor.
The similarities between her and the other victims were striking. As he stared
into her green eyes he had no doubt she had been taken and that Louise Russell
was now rapidly running out of time.
There was a sharp intake of breath from Anna when she saw the likeness.
'Trouble?' she asked.
Sean's response was a curt shake of the head. It would take too long to brief
her. She'd have to pick up the pieces as they went along.
'We're taking over this Missing Persons inquiry,' he informed DC Croucher. 'I
need you to get round her home and check it out yourself, just to make sure
she's not lying in bed with flu. Force entry if you have to, but preserve the
scene for a full forensic examination. Understand?'
'It'll be done.'
'Phone me as soon as you find anything.'
Sean hung up, immediately leaping to his feet and striding into the main
office, one hand raised to warn the occupants he wanted their full and
immediate attention. Donnelly saw him first and quickly made his way to Sean's
side. 'Where's Sally?' Sean asked.
'Chasing down some dead-end leads from Featherstone's TV appeal. Why? What's
going on?'
Ignoring the question, Sean called out: 'All right everybody, listen up.'
Donnelly decided he hadn't shouted loudly enough. 'Whatever you're doing,' he
boomed, 'stop doing it and start listening.'
The office fell silent as all heads turned towards Sean.
'Thanks,' he told Donnelly before addressing the rest of the room. 'As soon as
this briefing's over I'll be emailing you all a photograph of a woman called
Deborah Thomson. She just became our third victim.' The room filled with
disgruntled murmurs of disbelief. 'Last time anyone saw her alive and well was
when she left work sometime shortly after 2 p.m. yesterday. She failed to meet
friends for a night out and didn't turn up this morning to meet her boyfriend
for breakfast. She's not answering her phones and there's no answer at her home
address and her car is missing. When you see her photograph and read her
physical description you'll understand why I believe the man we're after has
taken her. Her abduction means more crime scenes to examine, more door-to-door,
more roadblocks, more witnesses to trace, more everything - so call your wives,
your husbands, girlfriends, boyfriends, whoever and let them know they won't be
seeing much of you for a while, not until we find this prick and bury him. Eat
as and when you can, sleep where and when you can, but do it on the hoof. Our
chances of finding Louise Russell alive are shrinking by the hour, so you're
all going to have to push yourselves to the limit. Any of you feel you're
beginning to unravel, speak to me or Dave and we'll see what we can do. Paulo
-' Sean turned towards Zukov.
'Yes, guv'nor.'
'How are you getting on with the transfer found on Karen Green?'
'I'm speaking with the companies that make that sort of thing, but so far it
means nothing to them. They've promised to check through their back catalogues,
but it's going to take time.'
'Well, keep on them. I want to know everything about it as soon as possible.'
'Why's it so important?' Zukov challenged. 'It's a mass-produced transfer,
nothing unique, so why waste our time on it?'
'Keep looking,' Sean snapped back. 'I'll decide what is and isn't important.
Understand?'
Zukov knew when to wind his neck in. 'Yes, boss.'
'Everybody needs to keep pushing,' Sean reminded them. 'Get your actions from
Dave and Sally and do them immediately. As soon as they're complete, come back
for more - and there will be more. Keep on the move, you don't have to come
back here to tell me what's going on: use your mobiles, email me - tweet me, if
you have to, but keep on the move. Make something happen, don't just wait for
it to. Fiona?'
DC Cahill straightened. 'Yes, guv'nor?'
'Get hold of Sergeant Roddis and tell him the good news about our new scene.'
She nodded her understanding. 'And everybody needs to be aware our man could be
disguising himself as a postman. I think that's how he gets the front doors
open.'
'Where's that information come from?' one of the weary detectives asked.
'A witness I spoke to,' Sean replied, keen to avoid details. 'I also think he
could be posting junk mail in the streets he's taking the women from, so he
blends in better. When you're doing your door-to-doors, ask the occupants if
they've had any junk mail in the last couple of days. If they have and they've
kept it, seize it and preserve it for forensics. Everybody clear?'
The response was a mix of mumbled agreement and softly spoken questions.
'Just one more thing -' Sean looked around the room, meeting their eyes, making
sure the message hit home - 'the pub's off limits until this one's in the bag.
I can't afford to lose a single soul, especially not to hangovers.'
The mumbling grew louder. Sean ignored it and headed back into his office,
closely followed by Donnelly.
Sean slumped into a chair and waited for the inevitable cross-examination.
'Disguised as a postie, eh? Interesting idea,' Donnelly began.
'One of Louise Russell's neighbours had junk-mail deliveries stopped, but round
about the time she was taken he got a pile through the door. He was not a happy
man.'
'That's it? One neighbour and a bit of junk mail?'
'It makes sense. That's how he gets the doors open without anyone thinking too
much about it. It's probably how he researches the woman as well. Who's going
to pay attention to a postie walking along the street? Which sorting office
covers the venues?'
'Sorting office?' said Donnelly. 'Hang about, I thought you were looking for
someone disguising themselves as a postie. Why the interest in sorting offices?'
'I have to consider the possibility our man's a real postman.'
'Consider it, or believe it?'
'The more I think about it, the more it makes sense that he could be a real
postman. Everything he needed to know he could have found out by reading their
mail. Where they work, whether they were married or had a partner, whether they
had children. He could even have found out when Karen Green was due to leave
for Australia. Everything he needs to know comes straight to him through the
mail. If he was just disguising himself as a postman he'd have to watch them
for weeks and hours at a time - constantly having to re-visit them to make sure
nothing's changed. But if he's a real postman ...'
'He only needs to monitor the mail.' Donnelly gave a low whistle. 'A fucking
postie. Why didn't you tell the rest of the team?'
'Featherstone gave me the gypsy's warning about openly mentioning the postman
theory. Doesn't want posties getting the shit kicked out of them all over
south-east London, so keep it on a need-to-know basis for the time being.'
'Fair enough,' Donnelly agreed. 'And it's South Norwood - the sorting office
that covers our venues.'
'All three?'
Donnelly scrunched his eyes as he tried to recall previous inquiries that had
involved checking mail coverage zones. 'Aye, I'm pretty sure it covers all
three.'
'OK,' Sean sighed. 'Let's go there.' He jumped from his chair and started
gathering his belongings.
'The sorting office?' Donnelly checked.
'Why not?'
'Surely the scene's more important?'
'No,' Sean disagreed, looking for Sally's number in his iPhone. She answered it
within a few rings.
'Sally, we've had another abduction.'
'I know. Paulo texted me.'
'I need you to check out the victim's home address. Fiona will meet you there.
I'll get her to send you the address. As soon as you find anything, let me
know.' He hung up before she could protest, stalking through the main office
until he found DC Cahill at her desk on the phone.
'Just a second,' she told the person on the other end, covered the mouthpiece
with her hand and looked at Sean.
'Fiona, I need you to text the victim's address to DS Jones and then get down
to the scene and meet her there.'
'OK,' Cahill agreed without question.
'Any luck with Roddis?'
'I'm on the phone to them now.'
'Good. Have the informant meet you at the address. Find out everything you can
from him.'
'Her boyfriend?'
'Yes,' confirmed Sean. 'And get the details of her missing car. If our man's
following his normal pattern, he would have taken it and dumped it in a park or
woods. We need to find and preserve it.'
'I'll make sure it's done,' she assured him.
'Good,' Sean replied, suddenly sensing Anna close behind him.
'Is it OK if I go with Fiona to the scene?' she asked. Sean studied her for a
few seconds before answering, trying to work out her intentions. She felt his
wariness. 'I'd like to see the scene from the suspect's perspective, see if I
can't learn something more about him.'
'OK, fine,' Sean finally agreed, turning to Donnelly and nodding towards the
main office door. 'Keep me updated, everyone,' he called, striding from the
room without a backward glance. 'As soon as anyone finds anything, I want to
know about it.' He waved his iPhone above his head to make his point and
disappeared through the swing doors.
As Sally pulled up outside Deborah Thomson's home she was immediately struck by
the similarities between it and the homes of the other women who'd been taken.
Another uninspiring, featureless, modern townhouse with a private drive and
garage and a concealed front door. She almost called Sean straight away, but
decided it could wait a little longer. DC Cahill was already standing outside
the address with a short but muscular man in his early thirties, well groomed
and well dressed. For the boyfriend of a missing woman he looked remarkably
calm. Sally decided not to judge him until she had some more facts. She gave
herself a few seconds to get into character before climbing from her car and
walking towards them.
DC Cahill did the introductions. 'Sam, this is DS Jones. DS Jones, this is Sam
Ewart, Deborah's boyfriend and our informant about her disappearance.'
Sally held out her hand. Underneath his slicked-back hair and tan Sally could
see fear in his eyes, but what had aroused that fear - concern for Deborah or
the prospect of being found out? Working on the assumption that DC Cahill had
already done the softly-softly bit, she decided to jump in with the serious
questioning and find out what Sam Ewart was really all about.
'What makes you think she's missing, Mr Ewart? Maybe she just doesn't want to
see you?'
'No,' Ewart replied, sounding sad and anxious. 'She was supposed to meet me for
breakfast - she was looking forward to it, I know she was, and so was I.'
'How long have you been together?'
'Only a few weeks.' Sally looked him up and down, the reason for his appearance
becoming clear to her now - he was still trying to impress Deborah, keep the
fledgling relationship on course. 'Listen,' he said, 'I know about the other
two women. The women that went missing. I saw it on the news. He's already
killed one. He's taken her, hasn't he? That's why you're here, because you
think he's taken Deborah?'
'We don't know anything for sure yet. Let's try not to get too far ahead of
ourselves, eh? Sometimes people take off, you know. They need a little time
alone. That might be all--'
'Not Deborah,' Ewart snapped. 'He's taken her. I'm certain of it.' He was
shaking as he tried to hold back his tears of frustration.
'Do you have keys for the house?' Sally asked.
'Yes.' He fumbled in his pocket and handed her two keys, one for the mortise
and one for the Yale locks.
'Have you been inside?'
'No.'
'Why not?'
'I only got the keys an hour ago. I don't have a set for her house. A friend of
hers from the hospital had these. By the time she gave them to me, the police
had already told me not to go inside.' Sally nodded her understanding. She
considered delegating the task to DC Cahill, but felt more afraid of being left
alone with Ewart, his sorrow and fear, than she did about entering the house by
herself.
'I need to take a look inside,' she told DC Cahill. 'You wait here with Mr
Ewart.'
'Shouldn't we wait for forensics to arrive?' queried Cahill.
'Guv'nor wants me to take a look first. Besides, we haven't checked the address
for any signs of the victim.' Immediately regretting referring to Deborah
Thomson as a victim in Ewart's presence, she almost apologized, but then
decided it would only amplify her mistake. 'I'll be a few minutes,' she said.
Unlocking first the mortise and then the Yale, she pushed the door ajar and
peered into the small house, the warmth from the blaring central heating
washing over her as it rushed into the chill of outside. 'Hello,' she called
weakly into the silent interior, her voice choked by her constricted, dry
throat. She coughed her airway open wider. 'Hello. Police. Is anyone at home?'
No answer.
Sally stepped inside, pulling the door to behind her, making sure it was left
slightly ajar and unlocked. If she needed to get out fast she didn't want to be
struggling with locks and latches. As she moved away from the entrance she
noticed her hands were trembling and gripped them together to control the
shaking. She pushed herself further into the innards of Deborah Thomson's
once-safe haven, now the scene of the first of many crimes that would be
committed against her.
She moved slowly forward, occasionally glancing at her feet to ensure she
wasn't trampling over obvious evidence left by the madness that had come into
Deborah Thomson's life, training and experience kicking in as if she'd switched
to autopilot, guiding her through the scene without her having to consciously
think about what she was doing or where she was.
Noticing a burglar alarm control panel on the side of the hallway wall, she
moved in closer to examine it. The alarm was unarmed, its light blinking green.
Had the other houses been alarmed? She thought back to the time she'd spent in
Karen Green's house, to the reports of the findings from both the previous
scenes. She couldn't be sure, but she seemed to remember both homes had alarms,
although neither had been activated. Clearly the madman wasn't comfortable with
alarms and lacked the expertise or knowledge to deactivate them - another
reason why he used artifice to gain entry and risked abducting the women during
daylight.
The kitchen was straight ahead, but first she needed to check the room
immediately to her right, the door to which was half-closed. As she peered
through the crack she prayed the room was empty, knowing she would be unable to
deal with a dead body - or even a hung-over Deborah Thomson, sleeping through
the phone calls and Sally's noisy progress through her house. Even if it meant
the swift, uncomplicated, safe conclusion of the search for the missing woman,
Sally could do without any surprises.
She eased the door open slowly, pushing with the back of her hand, ready to
take flight the second she sensed danger, pausing while she unclipped her
extendable baton, known as an ASP, from the holder strapped to her belt. The
heavy metal in her hand made her feel a little more in control as she swung the
door fully open and stared inside at what was clearly the living room. The
modern inexpensive furniture made her suspect the house was only rented and
that the fake leather suite, along with pretty much everything else, came
included in the rent. It was impersonal and slightly scruffy - half-read
magazines lying on the sofa and floor, prints of Monet and Cezanne in plastic
frames adorning the walls. A heavy grey box with a small screen made do for a
television, the digital conversion box perched precariously on top. Sally
remembered the missing woman was a nurse. Clearly the rent was swallowing most
of her income - even her collection of CDs and DVDs was far from impressive.
'Or maybe you just have more of a life than I do?' she whispered to herself. A
shiver ran through her whole body as she backed out of the room, returning the
door to half-open position, careful not to leave her fingerprints on it.
She covered the few steps to the wide open kitchen door and looked inside, her
eyes searching every angle and corner, the smells of Deborah Thomson's last
meals still clinging to the walls and work surfaces, magnified by the heat in
the room and the windows that had been sealed shut since the first signs of
winter the preceding year. Once inside the room she immediately noticed a
functional brown handbag perched on the kitchen table. Next to it lay a simple
mobile phone that occasionally vibrated to warn the owner they had missed calls
or text messages still waiting to be read. The thought that Deborah Thomson
might never read those messages or listen to the voicemails flashed through her
mind. She shook it away, but could do nothing about the bitter taste of bile
seeping into her mouth.
Sally crossed the kitchen and tried to look into the handbag without touching
it, but it was no use. Cursing herself for not having a pair of rubber gloves
with her, she took a pen from her jacket pocket and began to poke around inside
the bag. After a few minutes of searching as best she could without emptying
the contents out, she was satisfied that what she was looking for was indeed
missing. Deborah's bag was still here and so was her mobile phone, but both her
house and car keys were nowhere to be seen. For Sally it was the final
confirmation that Deborah Thomson been taken by the man they were hunting. She
needed to phone Sean, but as she searched for his number a voice calling from
the door startled her, making her almost drop her phone. It was Anna. 'Sally.
You in there?'
'Don't come in,' Sally commanded, but Anna ignored her and stepped into the
hallway. 'This is a crime scene. You shouldn't be in here.'
'Sorry, but I was worried about you. I don't think you should be in here alone,
not yet.'
'I'm fine,' Sally lied. 'What are you doing here anyway?'
'I came with DC Cahill.'
'I didn't see you when I arrived,' Sally accused.
'No. I was checking the rest of the street.'
'What for?'
'Trying to see things as he would have seen them.'
Sally rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath. 'Not you as well.'
'Sorry?'
'Nothing, but if you're coming in, at least stick to the sides of the hallway.'
'I know the procedure at a crime scene,' said Anna, walking to meet Sally in
the kitchen. 'Find anything?'
'Her bag and mobile are here, but her keys are missing.'
'It's him then?' Sally didn't answer. 'I really don't think you're ready for
this,' Anna persisted. 'You need to move more slowly, tell Sean you need to
ease yourself back to what you did before.'
'You don't understand,' Sally whispered. 'If I tell Sean, I'm finished. He'll
have to refer me for psychiatric help, then I'm finished in the CID, finished
in the police. I'm a cop. We're not allowed to need help. We're expected to
deal with it, no matter what. Once we can't, we're no use to anyone. Sean's a
good man, but the second he thinks I'm a liability to him or the team he'll get
rid of me just as fast as anyone else would.'
'I think you're underestimating him.'
'He's a cop,' said Sally. 'He won't be able to help himself.'
'Then come and see me privately. I guarantee I'll keep it totally confidential
- no feedback to the police. We all need someone to talk to, Sally, especially
after a life-changing event.'
'Maybe,' Sally answered without commitment. A loud angry voice at the front
door ended their conversation.
'What the bloody hell are you two doing in my crime scene?' an angry DS Roddis
shouted. 'Right, neither of you are going anywhere until I've had a look at
your shoes. If you're lucky, I might let you keep your clothes.'
Sean and Donnelly entered the large, chaotic building that served as the South
Norwood sorting office unannounced. Sean finished talking to Sally on his
mobile and stuffed the phone into the pocket of his raincoat.
'Well?' Donnelly asked.
'Sally, from the latest scene. Everything seems to indicate our boy has taken
her.'
'This is getting seriously out of hand,' Donnelly warned. 'A third victim - the
media are gonna go crazy.'
'Best we end it then, and quickly.' Sean was preoccupied, looking around the
inside of the cavernous building. The high ceilings and exposed pipework made
it look more like the bowels of a giant ship than a place where mail was
sorted. People in Royal Mail uniforms mingled with people dressed normally,
adding to the feeling of disorganization. There seemed to be an absence of
leadership or direction; although many of the workers had watched them
suspiciously, no one had yet queried their presence. Losing patience with being
ignored, Sean grabbed the next person who walked past. 'I need to speak with a
supervisor or a manager,' he demanded.
'Upstairs,' the man stammered. 'F-first floor.' Sean followed the man's eyes
across the room to a wide metal staircase. 'There's signs,' he added, unwilling
to help further, aware of unfriendly eyes watching his every move.
'Thanks,' said Sean, holding on to the man's arm a few seconds before releasing
him. The man scuttled away, glancing over his shoulder.
The detectives crossed the room, staring hard at everyone they passed, hoping
they might get lucky and spook someone into running. As soon as he'd chased the
runaway down, Sean knew it would only take one look into his eyes to tell him
whether it was their man.
Their shoes clanked loudly on the metal steps. 'These stairs are murder on my
old knees,' Donnelly quipped. Sean ignored him, his mind already turned towards
the supervisor they were yet to meet - the questions he would ask him; the
threats and promises he would make to get the information he needed. He paused
at the top of the stairs and looked around, breathing the stale air in deeply,
listening to the sounds of the living building.
Donnelly walked on a few steps before he realized Sean had stopped. 'Problem?'
Sean raised his hand to stop him saying more. 'He works here.' He was nodding
to himself. 'Our guy's a real postman and he works here, in this sorting
office.'
'Maybe.'
'No. Definitely,' Sean insisted.
'How do you know? We haven't even confirmed this office covers all the
abduction sites.'
'It feels right. Everything about it feels right. I can feel him here. Can't
you?'
'Let's just say if it turns out he does work here I won't exactly fall off my
chair,' said Donnelly. 'But for now perhaps we should concentrate on getting
hold of a supervisor - see if we can't find some evidence to go with your gut
feeling.'
'What?' Sean asked, his semi-trance broken. 'Yeah, sure. Lead the way.'
The man Sean had accosted had been right about the signs - they were
everywhere. They found one marked Supervisor and walked in the direction the
arrow indicated, along narrow, gloomily lit corridors, passing cheap wooden
doors adorned with white plastic name plates. It was Saturday and most of the
side rooms were abandoned for the weekend. The detectives moved deeper into the
upper floor of the building, searching for signs of life.
'Fuck me, guv'nor, this place makes your average police station look positively
cheery,' Donnelly announced.
'Not exactly big on security either,' Sean agreed.
They kept walking until they finally found a room that had someone inside. The
name plate said Supervisors Only. Sean knocked on the open door and waited for
the man to turn around, but he carried on sitting with his back to them.
'If it's overtime you're after, there's plenty of it. If you want to change
routes, you'll have to fill in the forms,' the man said without looking.
'I'll bear that in mind,' Donnelly couldn't resist saying, but at least it made
the man turn around.
'Who are you and what do you want?' the supervisor asked in a slight West
Indian accent.
Sean studied him for a few seconds before speaking. He had receding grey hair
and a beard to match, spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, a brown
cardigan draped over his tall, slim torso, casual grey slacks flowing down to
shoes that were more like slippers. He looked as if he should be at home in
front of his ancient electric bar heater rather than at work. Retirement wasn't
far away, but he'd obviously decided to start practising already. Sean flipped
his warrant card open and held it out.
'DI Sean Corrigan, and this is DS Donnelly. We have a few questions I think you
can help us with.'
'If you're here to arrest a member of staff you need to speak to the Post
Office investigation team. I don't want to get involved in any of that. If I
do, their union will string me up and hang me out to dry, you understand?'
'We're not interested in any member of staff who may have been nicking credit
cards or cash sent in the post by Grannie Whoever. There's no need to get the
Post Office investigation people involved,' Donnelly told him.
'Then why are you here?'
'Watched much telly lately? Read any newspapers, Mr ...?' Donnelly continued.
'Leonard Trewsbury, supervisor here, and if you're asking whether I know what's
happening in the world then the answer is yes.'
Sean sensed an intelligence in the man's eyes and an integrity in the way he
held himself. 'Then you're probably aware that a couple of women were abducted
last week. One of whom was subsequently found murdered?'
'I saw it,' Trewsbury answered. 'A terrible thing, but terrible things happen
in this world, don't they? You gentlemen would know that better than most, I
suppose.'
Sean found himself liking the man, his planned approach changing from
aggression and threats to one of cooperation. 'I need your help with something
- something that could save a life, maybe two.'
'Two?' Trewsbury asked. 'Then by the very nature of what you've just said, the
man you are looking for must have abducted another woman?'
'Unfortunately, yes,' Sean confirmed.
'What do you need from me?'
'Access to your work records, employee details, unexplained absenteeism.'
'I can't show you that without a Production Order, and even then I'd have to
speak to the Board of Directors. I can't just give you access to that kind of
information.'
'I don't have time to go through the proper channels,' Sean told him. 'One of
the women he's holding probably has less than forty-eight hours to live unless
we find her. Her name is Louise Russell and she doesn't deserve to die because
of bureaucracy.' The three men stared silently at each other for several
seconds before Sean spoke again. 'Anything you tell us will be off the record.
It'll never come out that we even spoke to you. Tell us what we need to know
and we'll find a way to make it look like the information came from someplace
else, I promise. But I can't walk out of here without information that could
save lives, just because I don't have a piece of paper with a judge's signature
on it. I can't do that.'
Trewsbury considered this for a moment. 'No, I don't suppose you can. So, what
do you want to know?'
Sean handed him a piece of paper pulled from his coat's inside pocket. 'These
are the addresses the women were taken from. I need to find out who works those
routes.'
'Hold on a second,' said Trewsbury. 'I'll need to log on to the system to find
that out.' He tapped the postcodes into the keyboard on his desk and waited a
few seconds. 'These addresses are on different routes, covered by three
different guys: Mathew Bright, Mike Plant and Arif Saddique.'
'Have you had problems with any of them?' Sean asked.
'No. They're all good workers, keep themselves to themselves.'
'Have they ever covered each other's routes - say, if one of them was sick or
on holiday, for instance?'
'That information's not going to be in the system, I'm afraid. There would be a
paper trail, but it could take days to trace and cross-reference. I'll do it
for you if you still want to know, but I can't do it straight away.'
'I haven't got that sort of time.' Sean rubbed his temples with his middle
fingers. 'What about yesterday? Who covered the address in Streatham?'
'Mathew Bright,' Trewsbury answered unhesitatingly. 'Same as he always does.'
'How can you be so sure?' queried Donnelly.
'I was here yesterday and so were these three guys. No one covered for any of
them.'
'But this would have been in the afternoon,' Sean told him, 'some time after 2
p.m. That's a bit late for post to be delivered.'
'Not here it's not,' Trewsbury said. 'We've got such a backlog we're
permanently paying guys overtime so they can catch up on deliveries, and
yesterday was no different. Mathew was working all the way up to six o'clock.'
'Tell me about him,' said Sean. 'Tell me about Mathew Bright.'
'He's not the man you're looking for,' Trewsbury insisted. 'I've known him for
years. He's a straightforward family man who likes a pint with the boys every
now and then. He's as predictable as he is unintelligent.'
'What does he look like?' Sean asked.
'He's white, in his forties, a big man ...'
'It's not him,' Sean stopped him. 'What about the other two? What do they look
like?'
'Plant is white and Saddique is obviously Asian, both in their fifties ...'
Sean cut him off again. 'In their fifties?'
'I would say so.'
'Then it's not them either.'
'Anything else you want me to try?' offered Trewsbury.
'Is there anyone who works here who's given you cause for real concern -
strange behaviour, violent outbursts, reclusive, secretive?' Sean asked.
'Hundreds of people work here, some for years, others only last a few days.
Full-time employees, casual workers - we have them all. There are plenty who
aren't exactly angels, but no one's ever given me real trouble, nothing I can't
handle. There's a group think they run the place, give the other workers a hard
time now and again, but they're just shop-floor bullies, all bark and no bite.
Nobody here strikes me as the type to do what you're talking about. I'd like to
think that if there was, I'd be able to tell.'
'Not always that easy,' Sean told him. 'Do you have photographs of the men that
work here?'
'Yes.'
'Can I see them?'
'I want to help, Inspector, but I can't let you do that. If I start pulling up
employee records, someone somewhere is going to work out it was me that gave
you unauthorized and frankly illegal access. I'm sorry, but I just can't do it.'
'OK, but if it was something more subtle would you help me? Something no one
could trace. Something off the computer system.'
'I'm listening.'
'I'm looking for someone who's worked all three of those routes at one time or
another during the last twelve months or so. Maybe they were his routes or
maybe he was just filling in. There'd be a paper trail of that, right?'
'There would.'
'Can you do that for me? Will you check the paper trail?'
'It'll take a couple of days.'
'I know, but will you do it?'
Trewsbury paused a few seconds, exhaling before speaking. 'I'll do it, but if
anyone says I did, I'll deny it.'
'Fair enough.'
'Well, if there's nothing else, gentlemen, it appears I have a lot of work to
get through.'
'I can't tell you how much I appreciate this,' Sean assured him, handing him
his business card. 'Give me a ring on the mobile number as soon as you find
anything, no matter what time of day.'
'I will,' Trewsbury promised.
'Thanks for your time,' said Sean, heading for the door. 'Oh, one more thing.'
He turned back to the supervisor.
'Go on.'
'Have there been any reports or allegations of unusual thefts here in the last
few months? Drugs or medical supplies?'
'Why do you ask?'
'I can't tell you. If I could, I would, but I need to know.'
Trewsbury slowly nodded his head, the belief that he might be working alongside
a man who had killed a young woman troubling him deeply. 'A few months ago
there was an incident,' he confessed.
'Go on,' Sean encouraged.
'A consignment of alfentanil went missing. Our investigation team looked into
it, but whoever took it was never found.'
'You have controlled drugs passing through this sorting office?' Donnelly asked
disbelievingly.
'Of course,' Trewsbury answered, 'particularly smaller consignments going
abroad, often for relief agencies working in the subcontinent. We're still the
cheapest way to get small packages overseas, despite what you may hear.'
'I assume you keep them in a secure location?' Sean asked.
'Yes. We lock them in our strong room, but someone got in and out without being
seen and took the alfentanil.'
'CCTV?' Sean queried.
'No. Unions won't allow it - quoted the European Commission on Human Rights, no
less.'
'A very unfortunate piece of legislation.' Donnelly shook his head mournfully.
'Fair enough,' Sean conceded. 'If you find anything, call me straight away.'
'I will,' Trewsbury promised. 'Wait a minute.' He scribbled something on a
notepad, ripped the top sheet off and handed it to Sean. 'My mobile number, in
case I'm not on duty when you need to speak. I probably shouldn't be doing
this, but what the hell.'
Sean took the note and slipped it in his inside jacket pocket. 'Appreciated,'
he told Trewsbury.
As Trewsbury watched the detectives walk from his office back into the gloom of
the corridor he chewed the soft end of a pen and considered Sean for a while.
He'd met dozens of Donnellys in his time with the Post Office, but he sensed a
difference in Sean, a rare intensity and determination. He would do what he
could to help him.
As the detectives headed for the exit, Sean could think of nothing other than
the man he hunted, seeing him everywhere he turned in the giant building,
imagining him standing by a bank of pigeonholes organizing his daily drop;
climbing the same staircase he and Donnelly had as he headed for the canteen or
even Trewsbury's office, hands gripping the same rail, feet stepping on the
same flooring tiles. He breathed the air in deeply, hoping to somehow pick up
on the scent of his prey, seeing himself walking up behind the faceless man,
resting a hand on his shoulder and slowly turning him around, confident that as
soon as he looked into his eyes he would know he had found the killer he hunted.
His thoughts were broken like shattering glass by Donnelly's gruff voice, a
mixture of Glaswegian and Cockney, his throat rubbed raw by the thirty
cigarettes he'd consumed every day for the last twenty-five years. Donnelly
couldn't wait to be free of the ubiquitous No Smoking signs so he could fill
his lungs with warm, nicotine-laced smoke. 'So, what do we do next?'
'He works here,' Sean told him. 'It all makes sense. I should have been on to
it quicker.'
'You need to slow down, guv'nor, not speed up. Don't get me wrong - in theory
what you're saying makes sense. But hard evidence - we don't have a thing. One
witness saying a postie put junk mail through his door even though he told the
Post Office not to, that's really all you've got. The rest is in your--'
'In my what?' Sean barked. Donnelly didn't answer. 'We need to take DNA off
everybody who works here. Within a few days we'll match it to samples from
Karen Green and he'll be dead in the water. Fucking game over.'
'That's gonna take some time to organize,' Donnelly reminded him. 'Today's
Saturday which means tomorrow is Sunday. This place won't even be open and
nobody at the Yard's gonna authorize a mass DNA screening until it's been
discussed to death by the powers that be, so maybe we get it authorized by what
... Tuesday at the earliest? Start testing on Wednesday or Thursday?'
'That's too slow. We need to start now.' Sean sounded desperate, almost
irrational, ignoring the very real legal obstacles that meant it was impossible
to do what he wanted when he wanted.
'Guv'nor, we can't. It isn't going to happen.'
'So what do you suggest, Dave?'
'I don't know, but we had better pray we don't have to rely on a mass DNA
screening to find Louise Russell. Because if we do, then she's fucked and so
are we.'
Sean recoiled from Donnelly's crass assessment of their hopeless situation.
'Then we'll have to think of something else,' he said.
'Listen, guv'nor, I've seen you pull a rabbit from the hat more than once, but
we can't always rely on that. I mean, walking around here, chasing leads and
witnesses, we shouldn't be doing this - the DCs and the uniforms should be. We
should be back in the office checking through everything that everybody brings
to us. The devil will be in the detail, that's how we'll find this bastard.'
'I know,' Sean agreed reluctantly, calming down, 'but I needed to come here, I
needed to see the scenes. If I don't, then all the information reports and the
witness statements mean nothing to me, d'you understand? I might as well be
looking at blank bits of paper. I have to feel him. We will do what you want,
but not just yet. I'm not ready yet.'
'Well, don't take too long,' Donnelly warned him. 'For all our sakes.'
Thomas Keller stood naked in front of the smeared cabinet mirror bolted to the
wall of his dingy bathroom. The place reeked of damp from the black mould
growing up the walls, the once pristine white seal inside the shower had long
since rotted away to nothing. Cold water sprayed from the shower head behind
him as he inspected the damage Deborah Thomson had done to his face. He poked
and picked at the gouged scratches around his eyes and down his cheeks, their
stinging pain and gaping, bloodless ugliness making him wince and moan. Maybe
she wasn't the one after all? Maybe she wasn't the real Sam, just another
imposter sent to try and destroy him? The wounds to his face told him it was
something he had to consider.
He lifted a cotton-wool pad from the antiseptic it had been soaking in, took a
deep breath and pressed it into the first of the cuts, waiting for the burning
pain to come, screaming into the mirror when it did. Over and over he soaked
the pad and applied it to his wounds, each time bawling like a child, the noise
of the running shower distorting his agony.
When he was finally finished he surveyed his work, happy he'd removed the risk
of infection. But it was obvious the scratches would take a while to fade and
would probably leave him scarred. He thanked the God who had already forsaken
him that today was Saturday and he didn't have to go back to work until Monday.
By then the injuries should have calmed down a little and he would have had
time to think of an excuse for how they came to be. For the time being all he
could do was force himself into the waiting cold shower to ward off the
lingering effects of the anaesthetic. He stepped into the freezing water and
felt it sweep his breath away, the pressurized drops like the pricks of
thousands of sharp needles on his skin. His mouth gaped open as he struggled to
draw breath, his diaphragm refusing to relax and let him breathe. As he slowly
grew accustomed to the temperature, the cleansing water had a revitalizing
effect on his mind and body and he began to feel better.
He rolled his head on his shoulders and closed his eyes, allowing his mind to
drift, hoping it would take him to a happy memory, back when he was with Sam or
maybe the times spent in the cages with the women. But he had so few happy
memories and so many nightmares. Suddenly he was a boy again, thirteen or
fourteen, he couldn't remember. Small for his age and sexually immature, he
would cower in a corner of the communal shower in the large, open changing room
at the comprehensive school, hoping the other boys wouldn't notice him, but all
too often they did. He felt someone kick his legs away, knocking him to the
floor as the shower head above sprayed blinding water into his eyes, rendering
his attackers almost invisible. He heard the squeaking of the tap as one of his
tormentors turned the water from warm to cold and then up to scalding while
kicks and punches battered his slim body. When the blows stopped, the whipping
with damp towels began, their whip-crack mixing with the sounds of high-pitched
hysterical laughter, the merciless attackers spurred on by the sight of violent
red welts erupting all over his body, his thin white skin threatening to tear
apart, the torture only ceasing when commanded to by the booming voice of a man.
'That's enough of that, boys. Turn off the showers, get dried, put your towels
in the used towel basket and get dressed. If I hear any of you were late for
your next class you'll be in detention.' The boys' laughter turned to moans and
protests as they begrudgingly did as they were told.
Thomas Keller waited for the boys to leave the shower before pulling himself to
his feet and heading for the exit, but as he reached the gap that led to the
changing room, the teacher's arm stretched across his escape and blocked his
path.
'Not you, Keller,' said a low voice. 'You're not dry yet.'
He looked up at the man in front of him. One of the much feared PE teachers,
dressed in a green tracksuit, whistle around his neck on a ribbon, stared back
at him with the same look in his eyes as he'd seen in the past, when others had
made him do things he didn't want to do. 'Hurry up, you lot,' the teacher
shouted over his shoulder to the rest of the boys. 'I want you all out of here
in two minutes flat.'
Thomas stood in front of the man, shivering, one arm across his chest and the
hand of the other cupping his undeveloped genitals. 'Please, sir, I'm cold. Can
I get dressed?'
'Of course, Thomas,' the teacher agreed, but he stepped in front of the boy
before he could pass. 'First, there's something I want you to do for me.'
'I don't understand,' he lied, all too familiar with the lascivious look in the
man's eyes and what it meant.
The teacher stretched out a hand, making the boy take a step back.
'Don't worry, Tommy,' he reassured him. 'I won't hurt you. I'm here to protect
you, to keep the other boys away from you - you'd like that, wouldn't you, to
have someone to look after you?'
'Please, sir,' the boy pleaded, 'I'll be late for my next class.'
'Don't worry about that. I'll make sure you don't get in trouble.' Again he
stretched his hand out, but this time the boy didn't move away, even though all
his instincts told him to run. The promise of having someone to protect him, an
adult to trust, overwhelmed his instinct to survive the moment. The teacher
gently stroked his hair before allowing his hand to drift downwards, caressing
the side of the boy's face. 'But first there's something I want you to do for
me. You understand, don't you?'
Thomas shook his head. 'No, sir. What do you want me to do?'
The teacher's hand followed the curve of the boy's slim shoulders and slid down
his arm, taking Thomas's hand in his own and pulling it towards the elasticated
waistband of his tracksuit.
'Take it out,' the teacher ordered.
'I don't know what you want me to do,' the boy pretended.
'Yes you do,' said the teacher, still smiling, still holding the boy's hand.
'If you want me to help you, you'll have to do this for me first.' He let go of
the boy's hand and rested both of his own on the boy's shoulders. 'Now do it.'
Tears of self-loathing began to sting the boy's eyes as he reached inside the
teacher's tracksuit bottoms, feeling the warmth, the coiled pubic hairs
scratching and itching his hand as his fingers found the teacher's rapidly
swelling penis. 'Take it out,' he commanded, and the boy did as he was told.
'Move your hand up and down,' said the teacher between moans of pleasure, his
head lolling backwards as his eyes began to close. The boy continued almost
frantically pulling at his abuser's penis, experience telling him that the
faster he did it, the sooner his humiliation and degradation would be over.
'Too fast,' the teacher managed to say. 'Do it slowly.' The boy obeyed. 'Good.
Good. That's better. You know what to do next.'
'No,' the boy pleaded. 'I don't know how to do that.'
'Don't lie to me,' snarled the teacher. 'You don't think I know? You'd better
do as you're told, you little slut, or I'll have to tell the children's home
how I caught you stealing from the other boys' bags - then you'll be fucked,
won't you, you little slut. When the grown-ups come on visiting days, when they
come to find someone to adopt and take back to a proper home, they won't take
you, will they? Not after the staff let them know you're a thief. Now, do as
you're told.'
The boy felt sick, constricting convulsions in his chest and throat making him
gag, but he knew he had no choice. If he ever wanted to be loved again,
accepted again, he had no choice. He shuffled forward on his knees and did what
the teacher wanted, the man's ecstatic moans drowning out the sound of his weak
sobs. 'Yessss,' the teacher hissed, 'yessss, that's good, oh you little slut -
you little fucking whore. You fucking whore, yes.'
Keller's body suddenly remembered it hadn't breathed for minutes, not since the
memory returned to haunt and torture him. He breathed in as if he'd just broken
through the surface of water he'd been trapped beneath, held under by an
invisible force trying to drown him, his eyes springing wide open, the water
from the shower washing over his eyelashes like tiny waterfalls. He buried his
face in his hands and began to cry like he'd cried when he was thirteen or
fourteen years old, alone in the shower with a man who'd promised to look after
him. But the man hadn't protected him, he'd used him over and over again until
he grew bored of him, his eyes turning to other vulnerable boys - boys living
in care, boys whose parents couldn't cope with another mouth that needed
feeding - and then he'd given Thomas to other men, all of whom had the same
special name for him - The little whore. He slid down the wall of the shower
and cowered on the floor, mumbling as the water filled his mouth. 'Mummy.
Mummy, why did you leave me? You said you'd come back for me, but you didn't,
you fucking bitch. Why did you leave me?' He curled into a tight ball and
waited for the other boys to start kicking and punching him - to start tearing
at his skin with their whip-like towels.
Sean and Donnelly pulled up outside Deborah Thomson's home, finding a parking
space squeezed between the gathering forensic vehicles, little white car-vans
fully loaded with everything Roddis and his team would need to sweep the scene
clean. They walked towards the cordoned-off area and ducked under the
blue-and-white police tape, flashing their warrant cards at one of the
uniformed officers Roddis had drafted in to guard his precious exclusion zone.
As they approached the house, Sean saw Sally standing at the end of the drive
talking with Anna. Roddis was close to the front door with two of his team,
already resplendent in their dark-blue paper forensic suits, preparing plastic
and brown paper bags to receive their anticipated exhibits from inside the
house. Sean acknowledged Sally and Anna, but kept walking towards Roddis.
'Mr Corrigan,' Roddis greeted him. 'I hope you don't expect to be allowed in
the house dressed like that? You shouldn't even be inside the cordon.'
'My apologies,' Sean answered. 'And no, I don't need to go inside, not this
time.' He scanned the house in front of him, a near identical property to the
other two scenes. 'Anything for me yet?' He made no apologies for his
impatience.
'We've had a poke around. There are traces of chloroform on the hallway floor
and a couple of full ident fingerprints on the inside door handle which appear
to be the same as the ones we took from the other two abduction sites.'
'How do you know they're the same?' Sean quizzed him. 'They haven't been to
Fingerprints yet.'
'I keep my own copies on the laptop - the digital age is a wonderful thing. To
my untrained eye, I'd say they were a match, but I imagine you already knew it
was the same man, yes?'
Sean didn't answer. 'I need you to liaise with the door-to-door teams,' he
said. 'If anyone in the street's had junk mail pushed through their front doors
in the last couple of days, I want them to seize it and hand it all over to you
for fingerprinting. I'm assuming you've worked out why?'
'Probably,' Roddis confirmed. 'So you think your man's been posting stuff
through other doors, no doubt trying to blend in while he scouted the area?'
'I do.' Sean's iPhone vibrated in his coat pocket. He wrestled it free of the
resisting material and touched his finger on the screen to answer. 'Sean
Corrigan.'
'Inspector Corrigan. How are you this fine day?' He recognized Dr Canning's
voice immediately.
'I've been better.'
'Never mind. Thought you'd like to know that I've released Karen Green's body
into the care of the Coroner's Officer. The family are due to formally identify
her at 2 p.m.' Sean glanced at his watch - it was already 1 p.m. 'Her body has
been moved to the chapel of rest. Better for the family to see her there. We'll
make her look as presentable as we can.'
'Good,' said Sean, 'and thank you.'
'Don't mention it. By the way, I've also identified what made the rather
mysterious circular bruises we found all over her body.'
'I'm listening,' Sean encouraged, unaware that he'd stopped breathing while he
waited for what could be the breakthrough piece of the puzzle he'd been
searching for.
'He used an electric cattle prod. We tested a fair few instruments of torture,
but only the prod gave us an exact match.'
Sean breathed again. 'Son of a bitch. Question now is, where the hell did he
get it from?'
'A farm,' Canning offered. 'Maybe he keeps his victims on a farm?'
'Not many farms in south-east London.'
'Perhaps he lives further afield than you thought?'
'No,' Sean dismissed the suggestion. 'He's no farmer coming up from the sticks
to snatch his victims. This one likes to stay close to what he knows.'
'Well, I know better than to argue with you.'
Sean had already moved on. 'I need you to do something else for me.'
'Such as?'
'Run a full screening for toxins in her blood.'
'No doubt you're going to ask me if she has traces of anything that could be
used as an anaesthetic or a pre-anaesthetic, something that would make a person
compliant but not technically unconscious?'
Sean's eyes darted from side to side, uncomfortable with having anybody one
step ahead of him, even Dr Canning, a man he trusted more than most. He
suddenly realized what must have happened. 'You've already run the tests,
haven't you?'
'Of course,' Canning answered, the satisfaction in his voice barely concealed.
'And you found traces of alfentanil.'
The satisfaction in Canning's voice turned to disbelief. 'How did you know?'
'I'll tell you later,' Sean promised. 'Could you inform the Coroner's Officer
that I'll be there to meet the family at the identification.'
'Of course,' said Canning.
Sean hung up and turned to Sally. 'The formal identification of Karen Green
will be at Guy's at two. I could do with you there.'
Sally's mouth fell open, but no words came out.
'I'll go,' Anna jumped in. 'I'd like to go. I want to go.'
'This won't be fun,' Sean assured her. 'Sally has experience with this. You
don't. Sally?' She looked at the floor rather than answer. He saw she wasn't
ready yet.
'Besides,' Anna continued, 'if I see the victim's body and meet with some of
her family, it may help me with profiling the offender. And there'll be a
Family Liaison Officer with them too, correct?'
'There will be,' Sean agreed. 'DC Jesson.'
'Then I can't see a problem.'
Recognizing her noble intent, Sean decided that if it gave Sally an easy out
then he'd take it. 'OK, but follow my lead and don't say a damn thing without
checking with me first. Understood?'
'Understood,' she promised. Sean began to walk towards his car, continually
shaking his head. He realized Anna wasn't following and turned back.
'Well, you coming or what?'
She rested a hand on Sally's shoulder and rolled her eyes before walking after
him.
'Women,' Sean muttered to himself. 'The one thing I'll never understand.'
The two women sat together but alone under the dull, jaundicing light of the
low-powered bulb that hung above their heads, the sound of water trickling
somewhere in the cellar as deafening in the silence as it was maddening.
Deborah Thomson clutched her damaged knee and rocked backwards and forwards on
the floor of her hellish prison. Her body was drained of adrenalin and she
sobbed quietly from the pain and the fear, her last chance of escape and
survival surely gone. She was going to die in this dark, damp cellar - or
somewhere worse. He would eventually come to take her life. She saw his hands
slipping around her throat, squeezing, pushing his fingers into her trachea
until it was crushed, the pressure halting the flow of blood through her
carotid arteries to her brain, unconsciousness and death soon following.
Her rocking became increasingly frantic and her breathing on the verge of
hyperventilation. She looked across the room to Louise Russell, lying silent
and motionless but for her constant shivering, her near naked body coiled on
the floor, her back towards her, the bones of her spine already becoming more
prominent after just a few days without water or food. Deborah knew Louise was
growing weaker and weaker - if he didn't kill her she would probably be dead
from hypothermia soon anyway.
A trembling voice made Deborah jump with fright. 'How could you leave me?' the
weak voice asked. 'How could you do that?'
It was a while before she could answer, the words stuck in her shrunken throat
as if his fingers were already coiled around it.
'I panicked,' she managed to say. 'I was scared, so scared. I saw the light and
could smell the air from outside and I just ... I just had to get away. I had
to get away from here. I couldn't think of anything else. My mind went blank
... and I ran. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.' Her tears ran into the mucus trickling
from her nose, making her face shiny and slippery as she tried to rub it away
with the backs of her hands. She inhaled deeply to clear her nose and control
her crying. 'If I get another chance I won't leave you, I promise. I won't
panic.'
'There won't be another chance,' Louise whispered calmly, as if she'd already
accepted her fate. 'You've killed us both.' She rolled over slowly so she was
facing Deborah, her eyes wide open and sparkling with life despite her
exhaustion. 'You've killed us both.'
'Don't say that,' Deborah told her sharply. 'You don't know that.' Louise
didn't answer, her green eyes staring in accusation.
'We'd already picked names for them,' she said.
'Sorry?' Deborah asked. 'I don't understand. Names for who?'
'Our children. The children we were going to have. We'd already picked their
names. If we had three boys we were going to call them John, Simon and David.
If they were girls we were going to call them Rosie, Sara and Elizabeth.'
'What if you had a mixture?' Deborah asked, wishing she hadn't.
'We never talked about that. Somehow I knew we'd have three boys or three
girls, so we never discussed it. Silly really.' Deborah said nothing. Louise
continued, her voice growing a little stronger as her mind temporarily freed
her body from her hell. 'I like the boys' names - strong and simple, like my
husband. He's called John too.'
'I remember,' said Deborah.
'His name suits him. Honest and strong. Not the most handsome, not the funniest
or cleverest, but good and reliable. I don't know how he's going to be when he
finds out what's happened to me. I'm worried he'll never forgive himself for
not being there to stop it, for not being able to save me.'
'You shouldn't think like that,' Deborah said, more because it was torture for
her, having to listen to it, than out of any wish to help Louise.
'I miss him so much,' Louise continued. 'I even miss the children - isn't that
ridiculous? I miss the children we haven't even had. We talked about them so
often I can see their faces, the shades of their hair, their freckles. I can
smell them - somehow I can feel them, yet they don't exist, and now they never
will.'
'Because of me,' Deborah snapped. 'That's what you're saying, isn't it? They
won't exist because of me.'
'No,' Louise answered, her dry, shrunken lips forming a tiny smile. 'No matter
what you did, you didn't bring me here. He's the one that did that.'
'Listen,' Deborah sighed, 'I was brought up in New Cross, you know it?'
'A little.'
'Then you know what it's like. I was the only girl with three older brothers
and I had to fight for everything. Sometimes I even had to fight my brothers
for food or go hungry. I had to fight the other kids at school or forever be
picked on. Whatever I got, I got it myself. Where I grew up, there was only one
rule - look after number one, because nobody else would. So when I saw my
chance I took it, and I was wrong. I should have got the keys and let you out.
I should have given you the same chance I had, but I didn't. I'm ashamed of my
instinct, but if your life had been like mine you'd have run too, no matter
what you think you'd have done. I promise you, you would have run.'
Neither spoke for a long while. Then Louise broke the silent tension.
'Are you loved?' she asked. 'Like I'm loved by John. Does anyone love you like
that?'
'I don't know ... my mum, brothers.'
'No, not like that. A man - a man who's your soul mate. Or a woman?'
'Maybe there's a man. His name's Sam. I haven't known him long.'
'Sam - that's a good name.'
'I think he's a good man, but I don't miss him the way you miss John. I'm alone
down here. You have John and your imagined children, but I'm alone. I can't
escape this hell, not even for a second.' There was another lengthy silence
between them. 'I still keep thinking this has to be a nightmare - that I'll
wake up soon. But it's been going on too long to be a nightmare, hasn't it? And
the pain, you don't feel pain like this in nightmares, so I know it's real, but
I still can't believe it.'
'We're here, aren't we? And we're real. Out there, people we've never met or
known will be watching the news, following our story, looking at photographs of
us, listening to our families appealing to this bastard to let us go unharmed.
But you're right, we won't be real to them. They'll feel nothing for us. To
them, we're light entertainment. We're only real to the people who love us. No
one else cares. Once we're dead, so is the story and we'll be forgotten by
everyone but those who love us.'
'Then those who love us won't give up on us and we shouldn't give up on them.
And the police, they won't give up on us. They'll keep looking for us. They
won't stop. They can't.'
'The police? How could they possibly find us down here? What could lead them to
... him. You've heard him, you've seen him. He's completely insane. The police
like things to make sense - a motive they can understand. Who could ever
understand this lunatic?' Louise laughed quietly and cynically, the effort
making her cough. 'What policeman on the face of God's earth could ever
understand this madman enough to find him? If there is such a man, then may God
pity his soul.'
11
Sean and Anna entered the mortuary area in Guy's Hospital and went straight to
the chapel that was attached to the complex. He'd been tempted to enter via the
autopsy area, to show his face to Dr Canning and to see how Anna would react to
being in the company of the dead, but had decided her reaction to seeing Karen
Green's lifeless body would be enough. Inside the chapel was quiet and
peaceful, feeling more like a church than a hospital, the walls painted a
tranquil dark purple. Someone had even gone to the lengths of hanging long red
curtains either side of the door the relatives would soon be brought through,
despite the fact there were no windows. A crucifix bearing the body of Christ
overlooked the scene below. A coffin-shaped, padded casket lay at the centre of
the room on a low table that had been draped in red cloth that spread to the
floor. Karen Green's body lay within.
Sean crossed the floor and looked into the long box. She'd been prepared well,
as all murder victims were here, by Dr Canning's assistant and a little
technical help from a local undertakers. A purple satin sheet covered her body,
leaving only her face on show. Canning's team had worked miracles on her facial
injuries and had even taken time to prepare her hair as best they could,
brushing it neatly to one side so as not to obscure any of her once pretty
face. He fought hard not to reach out and touch her face, as if somehow feeling
her cold skin would connect him to the man who had ripped her young life away.
Anna's voice close behind him dragged him back.
'I wasn't expecting it to be like this.'
'What were you expecting?'
'I don't know. Just ... not this.'
'Did you think we were going to take her family into the main mortuary and
slide her out of the freezer, pull back the green sheet and ask "Is this her?"'
'I don't know.'
'You've been watching too many TV cop shows.'
'Maybe.'
'How many dead bodies have you seen?' he asked, suspecting he already knew the
answer.
'None,' she answered quickly and truthfully. He said nothing, but nodded his
head knowingly.
Anna could sense his slight hostility and disapproval, as if she hadn't earned
the right to be there in the same room as Karen Green or to be part of a murder
investigation. He'd spent most of his adult life dealing with the unthinkable
while she'd been cocooned in universities, giving lectures and writing books.
She stepped forward and looked at Karen Green, her crystal green eyes now
covered with dead eyelids. 'She looks peaceful, despite everything she must
have been through.'
Sean looked away from the body to Anna, whose eyes were still fixed on Karen
Green. He looked her up and down while she wasn't watching, judging her before
responding to what she'd said. 'She didn't when she was lying in the woods. She
didn't look peaceful then. They never do. They look ... broken, like their
souls have been torn away against their will. Death brings no peace.'
She looked at him from the corner of her eyes, feeling his cold blue stare. He
was waiting for a reaction - a chance to study her the way she was used to
studying others. The sound of his phone ringing made him look away.
'Hello.'
'Guv'nor, it's Sally. Uniform have found Deborah Thomson's car abandoned on
Tooting Common, close to the outdoor swimming pool.' He didn't know the area,
but the picture in his mind was vivid: a dirt-road leading to a secluded
parking area, leafless trees bending slightly in the breeze as if reaching out
for the car.
'Shit,' he cursed. 'Have we got anyone left who can cover the scene?'
'I don't think so,' Sally told him. 'That last box of soldiers you opened is
just about empty. We're running out of people faster than we can replace them.
This guy is getting ahead of us, Sean.'
'No he's not. I'll cover the scene myself. You stay with Roddis at her house
and see what you can milk out of him. Call me if you find anything.' Without
waiting for an answer, he hung up.
'Trouble?' said Anna.
'We've found Deborah Thomson's car. Abandoned. Tooting Common. I need to take a
look. You can come, if you want.'
She nodded that she would. 'Don't you want to wait to see the family first?'
'No time for that now,' he told her, hoping she couldn't see the relief in his
eyes at not having to face them. 'I need to check out the place her car was
found as soon as possible.' He glanced over at the body of Karen Green.
'There's nothing more I can do for her now other than catch her killer. Her
family will have to wait.'
Donnelly repeatedly cursed under his breath as he waded through the piles of
information reports on his desk - door-to-door forms, each detailing the
description of the person spoken to. Where were they at the time of the
relevant abduction? Had they seen or heard anything? There were thousands of
these statements, and all needed to be checked and cross-referenced, as did the
information reports from the dozens of roadblocks carried out and drivers
spoken to, ditto the reports back from officers checking possible venues where
the women could be being kept, including the report from PC Ingram and PC
Adams, following their brief search of Thomas Keller's land and buildings.
Eventually all the information would be fed into the Home Office Large Major
Enquiry System - HOLMES for short. Introduced in the early eighties, this
lumbering dinosaur of a database was intended to allow relatively rapid and
accurate cross-referencing of every type of document a murder investigation
could generate. The intention was to prevent the sort of mistakes that had
allowed the likes of Peter Sutcliffe, aka the Yorkshire Ripper, to kill as many
women as he did, when simple cross-referencing would have brought his killing
spree to a halt after two or three victims. For the most part, it worked well,
but it still relied on the killer making a mistake.
Donnelly blew hard and made his lips and moustache vibrate as he pondered yet
another useless door-to-door report before tossing it into the pile he'd
designated Not of interest. The pile was growing monstrously high, while the
pile designated Of interest remained worryingly small, but Donnelly knew
exactly what he was doing, even if he never confided it in anyone else, cutting
the reports down to a manageable size so that when Sean eventually read through
them he wouldn't be swamped. The less crap Sean had to sift through, the freer
he would be to think, to turn his unquestionable instinct to best use, to pick
the diamond from the diamantes and eventually lead them to the man they so
desperately needed to find.
Sensing a presence behind him, Donnelly peered over his shoulder. He had a fair
instinct of his own and knew who it was without looking. 'What d'you fucking
want, Paulo?'
'How d'you know it was me?' Zukov asked with a mischievous smile.
'I used my detective's intuition - you should try it sometime. Now, unlike you,
I'm very busy, so what the fuck you want?'
'I was looking for the guv'nor, actually.'
'Why?' Donnelly asked, his patience beginning to fail him.
'It's about that transfer he had me researching, the one of the phoenix that
was found on Karen Green's body.'
'Well, go on,' Donnelly encouraged an increasingly suspicious Zukov. 'You can
tell me. I'll make sure the information gets passed on to the boss. Or have you
discovered some vital clue that's going to solve the entire case and you want
to be the one who tells the guv'nor yourself? Get all the credit?'
'Not exactly.'
'Well then, stop pissing about and tell me.'
'It's from a box of Rice Krispies.'
'What?' Donnelly asked incredulously, a broad, sarcastic smile spreading across
his red face. 'That's it? That's the ground-breaking piece of information, is
it? So we now know what the victim liked to eat for breakfast - Rice fucking
Krispies. And how long did you waste finding this out, eh? Two days? Three
days?'
'I dunno - three or four.'
'Oh Jesus Christ.' Donnelly shook his head in disapproval. 'What am I going to
do with you, Paulo? What am I going to do with you?'
'Yeah, well you can take the piss all you like, but it might be important. The
guv'nor seemed to think so, anyway. Besides, it doesn't tell us what she liked
for breakfast, at least not now. Might tell us what she liked for breakfast
sixteen years ago.'
'What are you on about?'
'The transfer was a free gift in boxes of Rice Krispies sixteen years ago. The
manufacturers only did the one run of them, so either Karen Green hasn't had a
bath or shower for sixteen years or for some reason she'd kept it safe for all
that time and decided to use it just before travelling to Australia.'
'Is that the information report there?' Donnelly asked, pointing to the
cardboard folder Zukov was holding.
'Yes,' Zukov answered.
'I'll take that,' Donnelly insisted, relieving the unhappy Zukov of his prize.
'It's probably nothing. I can't see its relevance, but all the same I'll pass
it on to the boss, see what he makes of it. As for you, it's about time you got
down to some proper police work.'
The aggrieved Zukov sloped away, leaving Donnelly to flick through the report.
Zukov was right, the phoenix transfer was indeed sixteen years old.
'Weird,' he declared and tossed the report on to the pile designated Of
interest.
A deeply disturbing sense of deja-vu swept over Sean as he and Anna drove to
the edge of the police cordon on Tooting Common. A one-time haunt of London's
lowest class of prostitute, the area had changed significantly over the
preceding ten years as the soaring house prices in Putney, Barnes and Sheen
forced the wealthy and educated to seek new residential areas to colonize,
pushing the not so fortunate ever further south or out of London altogether.
The blue-and-white police tape whistled in the breeze as it surrounded the
entire car park. Sean parked quickly and headed for one of only two uniformed
officers who were desperately trying to stop dog walkers and joggers from
entering the scene to recover their cars. Anna struggled to keep pace with him
as he closed on the policeman and flashed his warrant card. 'DI Corrigan. This
is Dr Ravenni-Ceron. She's with me.' He ducked under the tape and held it up
for Anna to follow. 'Have you touched the car?' Sean asked the young cop,
looking across the car park at Deborah Thomson's abandoned red Honda Civic.
'No, sir,' he answered too quickly. 'Only to see if it was open.'
'I take it the car was locked,' said Sean.
'No, sir. It's open. The keys are still in the ignition.'
Sean stopped walking for a second, a little confused and surprised. 'The keys
are still in it?'
'Yes, sir.'
'He's changed his method,' he told Anna, although he could barely believe what
he was saying. 'I didn't see that coming.'
'It's a minor detail,' Anna replied. 'It doesn't necessarily mean anything.'
Sean stormed across the car park, talking as he walked. 'It has to mean
something. With this one everything means something. If he's changed his
method, then he's done it for a reason.' He stopped when he reached the car,
filling his lungs with cool air before he began his cursory examination - an
examination that he knew would draw him into another world.
'Maybe someone disturbed him?' Anna offered. 'Made him panic and leave the keys
in the ignition.'
'No.' Sean snapped on a pair of rubber gloves. 'If he'd been disturbed we'd
have known about it by now. Uniform would have come poking around and found the
car. No. He left the keys behind because he's beginning to lose control, lose
patience. He knows where all this is leading - maybe only subconsciously, but
he knows.'
'You still think he's going to blow up?'
'Yes,' said Sean grimly, pulling the handle on the passenger's side door and
slowly easing it open a couple of inches, his body tense as he prepared for the
onslaught of scents that were about to rush from the car. The fragrance of a
pine air freshener washed over him first, quickly followed by traces of perfume
and make-up. He tried to remember the smell of Black Orchid and was as sure as
he could be that this was not the same. What did that mean? Confirmation the
killer made his victims wear the perfume of his choice? He tried to pick up a
trace of Elemis body cream, but could not. He eased the door open wider and
pushed his head into the space, recoiling at a smell he recognized - the same
animalistic, musky scent he'd detected on other killers, other criminals he'd
dealt with in the past - a smell of fear and desperation, guilt and excitement,
a smell all good cops knew meant they had the right man. A scent he often
feared oozed from his own skin pores. The madman had been here less than a day
ago. His presence remained strong, almost as if he was still there inside the
car.
Sean found himself staring at the driver's seat, unmoving, unblinking, watching
as the shape of a man formed in his imagination, a dark hooded top covering his
head. As he concentrated, the head slowly began to turn towards him, but the
spectre had no face, just darkness where it should have been. In an instant the
spectre faded, a solid image turning to gas before disappearing completely.
With a sigh Sean pulled himself out of the car and walked around to the boot,
popping the hatch open, giving the door an initial pull, then allowing the
pneumatics to do the rest. Once the hatch was fully open he placed his face as
close as he dared to the carpeted floor of the boot and inhaled deeply. Anna
saw how pale he looked.
'What is it?' she asked.
'Chloroform. He took her all right.' He looked around at the trees hissing
conspiratorially in the wind, unspeaking witnesses to the beginning of Deborah
Thomson's nightmare. Did the man he hunted see the trees as his allies, hiding
him from the people who chased him - hiding him from Sean? 'Always the woods,'
he said to himself.
'Sorry?' said Anna.
'Always the woods. Always the trees. It's the city he knows, but it's the woods
where he's most comfortable. Wherever he lives will be surrounded by trees.'
'That doesn't narrow it down much.'
'No. No, it doesn't,' he admitted and started walking back to his own car. Anna
rolled her eyes and followed him, feeling like a lost dog following its adopted
owner, half-expecting Sean to try and chase her away at any time. 'Wait here
until forensics arrive,' he instructed one of the uniformed officers as he
walked briskly past them. The officer nodded his reply.
As they reached the car, Anna managed to slow Sean down by taking hold of his
arm. 'I need to talk to you.'
'I've told you, I don't want to talk about me,' his eyes moved to the hand
wrapped around his forearm and she released her grip.
'Nor do I.' He looked at her in surprise. 'I need to talk to you about Sally.'
'What about Sally?'
'She needs help. She needs counselling. I'd like to help her and I think she
wants me to, but she could use a push from someone she trusts.'
'Meaning me?' Anna shrugged her shoulders. 'I can't do that. Sally's a cop, she
wouldn't want anyone to know, including me. If she thought for a second anyone
on the team knew she was getting counselling, she'd be destroyed.'
'Why?'
'Like I said, she's a cop.'
'I think Sally may be above the stereotypical macho image of a police officer.'
'Because she's a woman? Trust me, she's a cop before she's a woman, and that
means she knows the score.'
'What on earth does--'
'We don't admit to needing help, even when we do. Being physically broken is
fine, but mentally ...? No one would work with her again.'
'That's pathetic.'
'I didn't say it was right, I just said that's the way it is. If you can
persuade her to see you, fine, but for Christ's sake don't let anyone else
know.'
'Jesus, you're a strange bunch. Cops, I'm beginning to think you're all crazy.'
'We're crazy - what about you? One minute you're helping the man who almost
killed her, next you want to help her. Do you really know what happened to
Sally? That night when Gibran broke into her home?'
'Of course. I read the reports before interviewing Sebastian.'
'The reports? And what did the reports say?'
'That she was attacked in her own home and seriously injured by two knife
wounds to the chest.'
'That's nice and neat. Doesn't tell you how he stood over her while she was
bleeding to death on her own living-room floor. Doesn't tell you about how she
watched him searching through her kitchen knives for one to finish her off
with. Doesn't tell you about the four different surgeries she had to keep her
alive. Doesn't tell you about months of breathing, eating and drinking through
plastic tubes. Doesn't tell you about the nightmares.'
'She told you all of this?'
'Christ, she didn't have to tell me, I saw it.' Neither spoke for a while.
'Listen, Anna, I like you, but you'll only ever be an outsider to us. You'll
never be a cop. You stick around long enough, you'll learn more than most, but
you'll never be one of us. You'll never really see what we do.'
'I know,' she admitted, 'and frankly I wouldn't want to be. Working with almost
no sleep day after day, hardly eating or drinking, trying to think straight
when your mind and body are exhausted ... I admire you. I didn't think I would,
but I do. And I admit it, I had no idea it would be like this.'
'You get used to it. I'll keep going, without sleep or rest if necessary, until
I find this bastard and bury him. You never know, I might get lucky - he may
blow up and top himself.'
'But not before he kills the women he's taken. And according to your theory,
not before he goes on a spree, settles a few old scores, real or imagined.'
'He's heading that way,' said Sean. 'Leaving the car open, with the keys inside
- his control is slipping. Soon the women won't be enough.'
'I disagree,' said Anna. 'You're reading too much into the keys. If you want to
catch him quickly you need to stick with local criminals, ones with juvenile
convictions for residential burglaries, particularly ones with a history of
defecating inside the houses they broke into. As they grew older there'll have
been a progression to minor sexual offences, gradually becoming more serious.
Possibly even rape.'
'No,' Sean snapped. 'He's beyond that. Besides, he's got no previous
convictions, remember?'
'Then the police have missed something or the offender is incredibly lucky.
Either way, he's showing all the signs of a sexual predator progressing from
burglary to rape and murder. His crimes are a classic expression of power and
anger, probably brought on by some cataclysmic rejection. The actual women mean
little or nothing to him. The similarities in their appearance is due to the
fact they remind him of the person who rejected him, most likely his mother or
even grandmother, yet despite her rejection he still loves her and wants to be
with her, hence he takes the women who remind him of her.'
'No,' Sean argued, his voice raised in frustration. 'He hates his mother, his
grandmother, everyone who betrayed him, and that means everyone in the world.
Everyone except for one woman - the one who showed him kindness and acceptance,
at least initially. But it didn't last. Again he was rejected, but he still
loves her; despite the rejection, he still loves her.' As he spoke he began to
drift away from her, melting into the shadow-land, a land inhabited by just two
people: Sean and the man he hunted. A land of thousands of questions and almost
no answers, but still it was where he needed to go, to keep walking through the
fog. His mind stretched out as if trying to see the path ahead before he
tripped and fell on unseen hazards. 'Everybody who's ever rejected him, he
hates. He despises them. Dreams about the day when he'll have his revenge. Yet
in her case, even after she rejected him, he's gone on loving her. He covets
her, craves her, wants to keep the time they had together alive. Why doesn't he
hate her too?' He sensed Anna was about to speak and thrust an upturned palm
towards her to stop her. 'It doesn't make sense - she does to him what everyone
else has done to him, yet he still loves her - I mean really loves her. Why is
she so different?' It felt as though he was reading a burning letter - the
answer smouldering in gentle orange flames, turning to ashes before he could
read it to the end.
Anna was more than just watching him now - she was studying him, his eye
movements, how often he closed his eyes, his hand gestures, the movement of his
constantly clenching and releasing fingers, the way he occasionally cocked his
head to one side as if to hear some whisper only he could detect, the way he
rotated on the spot where he stood, turning fully three hundred and sixty
degrees one way then back the other. She'd seen this level of projected
imagination in some of the killers she'd interviewed, but never so strong in
someone sane, and always their imaginations would only satisfy them for so long
before their fantasies had to become reality. She continued to study him, even
when he suddenly froze, eyes staring at nothing.
'Fuck it,' he swore. 'It's gone.'
'What's gone?' Anna asked, hoping he would be able to return to his conscious
trance.
'Nothing. It doesn't matter.'
'Sean, I have to say, I think this theory of yours about some mythical woman
he's looking to replace is a red herring that will lead--'
'No,' Sean broke in. 'It's the key to finding him. Find her, we find him.'
'What you believe would indicate he is an Expressive killer, killing as a
release of anger and frustration, using the victims as replacements for someone
known to him, but I see no sign of that here. His crimes are classically
Instrumental: planned, cold, unemotional, an expression of some other as yet
unknown desire.'
'Clinical terms,' Sean barked, his temper rising, swelling painfully in his
chest. 'Instrumental, Expressive - just clever clinical terms. They don't
belong out here. This is the real world.'
'Yes, but these studies can be applied to the real world.'
'Why are you here?' he demanded, stunning Anna into silence. 'Why are you
really here? You can't help me, not out here. What, are you trying to give
yourself credibility, so the next time you meet your fellow psychiatrists at
some convention you can impress them with an account of a real murder
investigation? Are you going to tell them all how you helped the clueless
police solve the case? No, no, wait, I know why you're here - it's for your
next book, isn't it? So you can enthral your readers with tales of horror and
bad men who might come for them in the night. That should sell a few thousand
copies.'
She wouldn't be his victim any longer. 'Why don't you just tell me what you're
really afraid of, Sean, instead of hiding behind your anger?'
'I'll tell you what I'm afraid of, I'm afraid of the fact that I'm running out
of ideas and time and so is Louise Russell and so is Deborah Thomson. I'm
afraid because the answer to this riddle is buried under ten thousand
information and intelligence reports. I'm afraid because the name of the man
I'm after is locked in the fucking Post Office sorting depot in South Norwood,
but I can't go look for it because I need a Production Order, and even if I had
one I couldn't use it until Monday, and then only if the powers that be manage
to get the union's agreement. So yes, I am very fucking afraid.'
'Then let me help you. Use what I know.'
'No.'
'What is your problem?'
'I'll tell you what my problem is,' he said rounding on her, 'twenty years ago
I was a rookie cop, barely out of uniform on the Crime Squad at Plumstead, when
suddenly I find myself attached to the Parkside Rapist inquiry team. Someone
was attacking and raping young women in and around south-east London parks
popular with walkers, similar to Putney Heath - mean anything yet?'
Anna shrugged her shoulders without commitment.
'That's the first time I met Detective Chief Superintendent Charlie Bannan. He
was the most brilliant detective I've ever seen, let alone worked with. Every
now and then he'd pull a young cop like me aside and run something past them -
you know, just to test their mettle, their instincts. One day he drops a
photograph of Rebecca Fordham in front of me and tells me he thinks the
Parkside Rapist and Rebecca's murderer are one and the same man, and he asks me
what I think. I look at the crime scene photographs, the victims' descriptions,
the excessive use of violence, apparent weapon used, the wounds he'd inflicted
and the strong sexual element to the crime. But there's one glaring difference
between this scene and the Parkside Rapist's scenes - Rebecca had been murdered
inside, in her flat, whereas the Parkside Rapist always struck outside, or so
it seemed. But I took the file with the crime scene photographs back to where
she'd lived, in a flat just off Putney Heath - a mixture of open common land
and woods - just like the areas the Parkside Rapist was using. So I checked
back further into the files and discovered she'd been walking in the woods
earlier in the afternoon on the day she was murdered. And that wasn't all I
found: she'd been walking with her son - her seven-year-old son - but unknown
to her killer she dropped him off at a neighbour's in the same building before
going home. Apparently she had a lot of work to catch up on so the neighbour
had agreed to look after him for a few hours.'
'What's the relevance of the son being with her?' Anna asked.
'Because everyone always assumed that the children were irrelevant - that when
Richards attacked women who were with their children he did so in spite of them
being there.'
'But not you?' Anna questioned.
'No. Not me. I always believed it was his preference to attack women because
they were with their children, not that he simply wasn't put off by the fact
they were present.'
'But as you said, Rebecca Fordham's son wasn't with her when she was attacked.'
'Yes, but he didn't know that. All he knew was that he failed to attack her
while she was in the woods, but now he'd managed to follow her home, and all he
had to do was stay out of sight, hiding in the trees, and wait for her to make
a mistake.'
'And she did.'
'Yes. Her flat was on the ground floor - it was summer. How was she to know
there was a monster like Richards watching her - waiting? She left a kitchen
window open and eventually he built up the courage and he slipped inside and he
killed her. He killed her then he mutilated and sexually abused her dead body -
cleaned up as best he could and left. But there was something else in the
photographs that stood out for me, something that only Charlie Bannan had also
seen and considered.'
'What was it?'
'A doll.'
'A doll?'
'Larger than normal, right in the middle of the crime scene, sitting on the
chair opposite the couch where Rebecca was butchered.'
'And you thought he'd used it as a replacement for the child who wasn't there?'
Anna caught on. 'You thought he took the doll from somewhere inside the flat
and placed it as if it was watching him rape and murder the mother?'
'Yes,' he told her coldly. 'But blood spray patterns on the doll indicated that
it hadn't been present when she'd had her throat cut, but had been present when
the other wounds had been inflicted.'
'So he inflicted an incapacitating and ultimately fatal blow and as she lay
bleeding to death he went looking for the child, to make him watch the rest,
only he couldn't find him, so he replaced him with the doll before finishing
his ...'
'His performance,' Sean finished for her. 'And yes, that's what I believed
happened. It had to be the same man. Only trouble was, the Rebecca Fordham team
had already charged Ian McCaig, who'd killed himself while on remand waiting
for his trial. McCaig was clearly unstable from the outset, but he was no
killer. The media frenzy around his arrest and the public hatred drove him over
the edge. He just couldn't take it. Everyone took his suicide as his admission
of guilt.'
'But not you?'
'No and not Charlie Bannan either. As far as we were concerned, the Parkside
Rapist was still on the loose and therefore so was Rebecca's killer. It just
couldn't be McCaig - he was all wrong for it. So why had they charged him in
the first place? I'll tell you why, because some fucking historical
criminologist reckoned he could be the one. But there's no way he could have
been. McCaig's only conviction was for indecent exposure, a crime of
self-degradation. Rebecca's killer was all about the degradation of others. Two
traits that can never exist in the same offender. They're opposite ends of the
spectrum - night and day, light and darkness. But the team investigating
Rebecca's murder wouldn't entertain the idea they had the wrong man. Bannan had
pleaded with them to listen, but they wouldn't. So we met with the
criminologist ourselves and asked her to consider a possible link between
Rebecca's murder and the Parkside rapes.'
'And?'
'She agreed they appeared to be linked.'
'So she admitted she could have been wrong?'
'She said she'd never told the Fordham Team McCaig was guilty, just that he
fitted elements of the profile. But the damage had already been done. The
investigating team had allowed themselves to be influenced by an outsider and
it had led to a catastrophic mistake. Anyway, a few weeks later we found
Lindsey Harter and her four-year-old daughter raped and murdered in their own
home. The brutality of the attack left us in no doubt it was the same man who
had killed Rebecca. The same man who was committing the Parkside rapes. When we
looked at the blood spray patterns around the area where the mother had been
killed it became apparent that something had been removed from the scene after
she'd been killed - something or someone who'd been sitting in the chair
opposite. So we had the daughter's body and clothes examined for traces of her
mother's blood and Christ, we found plenty. The blood spray patterns confirmed
it - the killer had made the daughter sit and watch him sexually and physically
mutilate her own mother before leading her to her own bedroom and killing her
too.'
'Just like the doll,' Anna said, pulling her coat tight against the cold of the
day and the chill of what she was being told.
'Yeah. Just like the doll. Later we arrested and charged Christopher Richards
with the murder of Lindsey and her daughter Izzy. He admitted his guilt. But
when we asked about Rebecca's murder, he denied having anything to do with it.
The criminologist continued to deny her involvement in the conviction of
McCaig. Maybe she'd been misunderstood - maybe she was just scared of her
reputation being destroyed. I don't suppose we'll ever know.
'It took until 2007 for DNA tests to finally prove that it was Richards who
murdered Rebecca. He pleaded guilty to Manslaughter on grounds of diminished
responsibility. We'd been right, Charlie Bannan and I - we'd been right all
along. A young mother and her four-year-old child, both raped and murdered
unnecessarily. Dozens of other women raped by Richards after he'd killed
Rebecca - all because the investigation team stopped listening to their own
instincts - allowed the world of academic theories and clinical papers into
their world - the real world. My world. These things don't belong in my world.'
'We've improved since then,' Anna pleaded, all too aware of the cases to which
he referred. 'We've learned from our mistakes, we know so much more now.'
'Why don't you save what you know for the next time you're in court, so you can
use it to help some other bastard like Gibran get away with murder.'
Anna's mouth hung slightly open for a few seconds. 'I don't deserve that,' she
said.
He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, letting the anger and bitterness
sink back into the dark places that littered his corrupted soul. 'I'm sorry. I
didn't ...'
'I think we should just go.'
'Fine,' he agreed. They both climbed into the unmarked car and prepared for a
long, silent journey back to Peckham.
Thomas Keller lay on the stained and soiled mattress, a filthy duvet pulled up
to his chest. It was early evening outside and still light enough to see
without turning the overhead light on. Underneath the duvet he wore his
tracksuit bottoms and an unwashed T-shirt. He could see her, see her so
clearly, as if she was lying in the bed with him - the only person he ever
really loved. The only person who ever really loved him.
They were alone together, a long time ago when he was only twelve years old, in
her garden, bathed in August sunshine, warm and strong, early in the summer's
evening, the smell of freshly cut grass from the surrounding gardens filling
their heads. Alone where no one could see them, away from prying eyes that
would try and stop them if they could see them together. He stroked her long
brown hair, occasionally glancing at the transfer of a phoenix on his forearm
while she hummed and made a daisy chain, her identical transfer vivid in the
bright light - transfers they'd put on each other, a symbol of their
never-ending love. She turned to him, smiling. 'What you thinking about,
Tommy?' she asked, her gentle, kind voice like an angel speaking to him, his
one and only escape from the harshness of his reality.
'I was thinking of you.'
'Why, do you love me?' she giggled.
'Yes,' he said, not afraid to tell her - not afraid to tell her anything.
'Enough to stay with me for ever?'
'Yes.'
'Don't be silly - we've only been friends for a week.'
'But I've known you for a lot longer than that,' he protested.
'No you haven't,' she insisted. 'Not properly.'
'I've watched you for a long time. Watched you with the others. But I knew you
weren't like them. I knew you were different.'
'They're OK,' she said unconvincingly.
'To you maybe, but not to me.'
'They just don't understand you, Tommy. They think you think you're too good
for them or something.'
'Is that what they told you?'
'Not exactly, but I know what they say to each other.' Thomas Keller didn't
respond. 'You should just ignore them when they're being mean to you.'
'I do, mostly, but one day I'll show them all what I can do. Then they'll be
sorry they picked on me.'
'What do you mean?' Sam asked, looking up from her daisy chain, peering into
his brown, almost black eyes.
'Nothing.' He suddenly leaned forward, his lips pursed, but she bent away from
him.
'What are you doing?' she said, still smiling, but more anxiously now.
'I wanted to kiss you. That's all.'
She watched him as he looked away and stared at the ground, a sense of pity and
friendship overwhelming her resistance. She knew what the other children at
school did to him, physically and emotionally tormenting him whenever a teacher
wasn't there to stop them or sometimes even when there was, but she had never
joined in. By befriending him she had risked her position as one of the popular
kids, one of the in-crowd; her friendship had been enough to confer on him a
degree of protective cover. All the same, his attitude towards her did concern
her a little. From the very first time she had spoken to him, just a week ago,
when she had intervened to stop a group of boys from tearing his school books
to pieces, his intensity towards her had seemed ... unnatural. She'd told
herself it wasn't surprising - clearly she was the only friend he'd ever had.
Her parents and older relatives had always been amused and charmed by her
natural instinct to protect the innocent, embarrassing her with tales of when
she would rescue writhing caterpillars from attacking ants or free moths from
the spider's web, and now she had Tommy - another insect to be saved from the
ants. She leaned close to him and quickly kissed him on the cheek.
He looked up, joy and fear etched on his face, confusion and excitement, his
lips swelling with the blood of embarrassment and desire. He'd never felt quite
like this before - a stirring in the very pit of his stomach; a tightening
feeling in his groin. He knew what to do next. Some of the older boys at the
children's home had made him watch their secret DVDs. He knew what men were
supposed to do to women - especially when they loved them - the older boys had
made that very clear. He leaned towards her and kissed her on the cheek. To his
pleasure and surprise she didn't pull away, so he kissed her again and again,
moving across her cheek to her beautiful red lips, the taste and warmth of her
skin firing through his entire body like electricity, making his heart pound
out of control, his breathing reduced to tiny gasps.
She giggled nervously, placing a hand on his chest as his lips searched for
hers, probing and slipping on the side of her face. She tried to twist away,
but felt his hands slip under her armpits and begin to hold her in place,
pulling her closer to him. She pushed hard at his chest again with both hands,
the increasingly fraught struggle making them over-balance and fall sideways on
to the grass, his lips never ceasing their search for hers.
'No, Tommy,' she managed to say. 'Stop it, please. Stop it, Tommy, you're
hurting me.' She felt a hand slide under her top and grope her chest for
breasts she didn't have yet, his jagged fingernails clawing at her soft skin.
And then he was on top of her, his hand pulling and tugging at the buttons and
zip of her jeans, her hand pulling at his wrist, tears beginning to seep from
her green eyes as she fought to free herself from him. But the madness had made
him too strong and she felt his powerful thin fingers push themselves into her
knickers pressing hard on her crotch. 'Stop, Tommy. Please, you have to stop.'
But he didn't, a single finger pushing its way inside her, the pain and shock
electrifying her body, making her do the only thing she could think of doing.
Her shrill scream ripped through him like a bullet, freezing time as he became
totally still, his eyes wide and round, misty with sexual desire that he knew
now would never be fulfilled. For that second nothing in the world existed
except the two of them, locked in their grotesque embrace. He felt her lungs
filling with air, watched her mouth spread wide open, every muscle in her body
tense as she prepared to shatter the very air around them with another scream.
The horror of the situation punched him in the chest and shocked him to action
before the scream could leave her mouth, his hand clamping over the opening in
her face that threatened to destroy him once and for all.
She blinked mechanically as she realized what was happening, the tears being
pushed from her eyes and rolling down her temples and disappearing into her
hairline. 'You shouldn't have done that,' he told her. 'You shouldn't have done
that. I ... I ... only wanted to prove to you that I love you. You want me to
show you that don't you?' She tried to shake her head, to show him she didn't,
that she just wanted him to go and never speak of this again to anyone, but it
was too late - too late for both of them.
The silhouette loomed up behind him, the sun glaring into her eyes making it
impossible to see who it could be, but suddenly the weight of Tommy's body was
no longer on her as he appeared to be flying backwards through the air, the
angry voice of an adult breaking through her hypnotic nightmare - the voice of
her father. 'Get the fuck off my daughter, you little bastard. What the fuck
d'you think you're doing?' She watched her father raise his hand to strike the
boy and despite the horror of a few seconds before she couldn't let him.
'No. Don't hit him.' Her father looked at her silently, the rage in his heart
making her words sound distorted and unclear, but her pleading eyes told him
what she was saying, begging him to spare the boy who had tried to violate her.
'Please,' she asked. Her father lowered his hand and stared at Tommy as if he
was filth, stared at him the way he was used to being stared at. Then he
dragged him from the garden and through the gate that led to his car, her voice
following them all the way. 'Please don't hurt him, Daddy. He didn't mean to
hurt me,' as she tried to defend him through her confusion and shock, despite
her feelings of revulsion.
Her father spun on her, his finger raised to her face. 'You wait here till I
get back.' He grabbed Tommy by the back of his neck and pointed his face back
at his daughter's. 'Take a good look at her, son, because it's the last time
you'll ever see her. Understand?'
The boy said nothing as he was pushed into the boot of her father's car, the
slamming of the lid bringing darkness and fear as they drove the short distance
to the children's home. Then light rushed into the boot, blinding light, as
strong arms pulled him from the car and pushed him along the path to the
entrance. Her father made sure all the staff and children knew what he'd done,
that he didn't want to press charges, so long as the boy stayed away from his
daughter. No need to get the police involved, the staff at the home could deal
with it - just so long as the boy stayed away.
But Thomas Keller couldn't stay away, no matter how hard he tried, because he
loved her and knew she loved him too. Every chance he had, he watched her,
followed her home from school, hiding in the darkness. But he was young and
clumsy and her treacherous parents saw him. This time the police were involved.
They came to the children's home and spoke to him - warned him that a Crime
Report had been created and that he was shown as the suspect for the harassment
of one Samantha Shaw, but that he was lucky this once, the parents just wanted
him warned off. If he stayed away, they'd say no more about it. He would have
to change schools of course, but that could be arranged easily enough.
He suddenly sat bolt upright in his filthy bed as he remembered agreeing to
stay away from her. But he hadn't stayed away - how could he? She was his
religion. His god. How could he stay away?
And so he'd learned to be more careful - to make the shadows and darkness his
allies. He'd learnt to blend into his surroundings, like an urban chameleon.
And he watched her - he went on watching her for years.
Keller rolled out of bed and stepped across the bedroom to the drawer where he
kept the bundles of letters. Quickly he searched through the detritus until he
found what he was looking for - a bottle of Black Orchid perfume and a jar of
Elemis body cream. Lifting the perfume carefully from the drawer, as if it was
so delicate his mere touch might shatter it, he sprayed a tiny amount on to the
back of his hand, breathing in the drops of fine vapour as they travelled
through the air. His eyes rolled back into their sockets with pleasure,
exposing blood-vessel-streaked whites. When his pupils returned he slowly
unscrewed the lid from the Elemis cream, savouring the anticipation of what was
to come, the smell of it, the feel of it. Only when he was truly ready did he
push his index finger into the cream, its oily coolness making him sigh with
delight, his eyes flickering, overcome by such rare sensations of absolute joy.
Slowly he pulled his finger from the whiteness and carefully wiped the excess
on the side of the jar, gently, painstakingly massaging what was left into the
back of his hand, releasing the scent of the Elemis to mix with the perfume,
the combination once more carrying him back in time - back to the day only
weeks ago when he'd let himself into her house, while she and the man she lived
with were at work. The man who pretended to be her lover, but who he knew was
one of them, sent to watch over her, sent to keep her from him.
The kitchen window had been easy enough to open and the house wasn't even
alarmed. He'd slipped the blade of his flick-knife between the upper and lower
sash and snapped the latch. The window slid open silently and easily, the scent
of her life rushing at him all at once, almost knocking him back out of the
window as he snaked into the house, his agile, wiry body ideally suited for
climbing through tight spaces. Doing his best to ignore the assault on his
senses, he jumped down to the kitchen floor, landing like an alert cat alive to
any changes in sound or shade; to even the tiniest deviation to the atmosphere
of the interior. Once he was satisfied he was alone, he explored the small
house, always taking care that he could not be seen from the windows, searching
drawers and cupboards, picking up anything and everything that belonged to her,
carefully replacing items in exactly the same place he'd taken them from. He
drank in as much of her life as he could without over-gorging and losing
control, overloading his starved senses with her essence.
Eventually he reached her bedroom and slipped through the barely open door, the
indentations left by her body still visible on the unmade bed, her pillow
flattened in the centre and puffed at the sides. But what should have been a
magical moment had been ruined by the smell of the man and the deeper mould his
heavy body had left in her bed. Trying to block out everything else, he had
knelt next to where she had laid, his hands tracing the shape of her body and
head, the faintest trace of her warmth still detectable. He rested his hands on
the bed until the warmth had completely gone. Then he began to move inch by
inch around the room, absorbing every detail, until he came to her dressing
table, littered with make-up and things only women had, things that were
strange and exotic to him, things that had never had a place in his life.
His eyes searched the chaotic surface, finally coming to rest on two of the
larger, more eye-catching items: a black bottle with a gold label, and a heavy
glass jar with a chrome seal containing something white. He lifted the black
bottle and read the words embossed on the label: Black Orchid Eau de Parfum. He
sniffed at the top of the bottle, nervous and suspicious of the contents,
surprised at the beauty of the odour, glancing from side to side as if he was
being watched, then quickly stuffing it into his trouser pocket, its weight and
size awkward, but worth it for the prize. Next he lifted the heavy glass jar
and read the unfamiliar words written around its body - Elemis body cream. He
unscrewed the lid and let the subtle, pleasant vapours drift up and into his
face. Unable to resist, he pushed his finger into the cream. That had been the
first time he'd enjoyed its cool oiliness, but there had been many occasions
since. He rubbed the cream into his face, closing his eyes to allow images of
Sam massaging the cream into her skin - all of her skin. This was not how he
remembered her scent, but he knew it was how she must smell now - now the girl
had become a woman.
A sudden noise in the distance outside startled him, brought him back to where
he was and what he was doing. He screwed the top back on the Elemis, tucked it
into his other pocket and left the bedroom and then the house, slipping out of
the same window and closing it behind him.
The memory was a sweet one, but now he was alone again in his own bedroom, the
opened jar of Elemis in his hand. He noted that the jar was half-full - enough
to last a long time yet, provided he wasn't wasteful, provided he only used it
on those who really could be her. He would have to be more selective in the
future, but even so, he had enough for many more women - for many more Sams. He
screwed the lid back on the cream and carefully replaced it in the drawer.
Close to midnight and Sean sat alone in his office with the overhead lights
turned off to lessen the chances of being ambushed by a migraine, a desktop
lamp the only lighting in the room, although the strip lights in the main
office still washed the place with harsh, white light. There were a few people
floating around, including Donnelly and Sally. Most were typing up their
reports of the day's findings, others making apologetic phone calls to
husbands, wives and partners. His tired eyes searched the office,
subconsciously processing who was there and who was missing. He noticed Sally
and Anna hunched over Sally's desk, whispering conspiratorially, no doubt
discussing his harsh words at the scene of Deborah Thomson's car, or perhaps
Anna was still trying to persuade Sally to let her help. If that was the case,
he wished her luck.
He was still considering the possibilities when he saw Donnelly stretch, stand
up and head his way. The lack of urgency in his manner told Sean not to expect
any ground-breaking news.
Donnelly stepped into his office and sat without being invited. 'Guv'nor.'
'Dave,' Sean replied.
'Anything happening?'
'You tell me.'
'Anything in the information reports prick your interest, from the roadblocks
... door-to-door?'
'Not yet,' Sean answered, 'although, as you can see, I still have plenty to get
through.' He gestured to the pile of A4 sheets on his desk.
'Aye,' Donnelly sympathized. 'I've cut the wheat from the chaff as much as I
could, but you know what it's like with an investigation of this profile: every
Tom, Dick and Harry wants to get their little piece of information in so they
can spend the rest of their careers in the canteen boring anyone who'll listen
that they were the one who discovered the key that broke the case and caught a
murderer.'
'I know,' Sean agreed, 'but the answer will be in there, somewhere. It's just a
matter of whether I can find it.'
'You will,' Donnelly told him.
'Not until I get that Production Order for the Post Office employee files, and
you and I both know there isn't a judge in the land who's going to give me an
Order on all I've got so far - one wobbly witness who's had a bit of junk mail
stuffed through his door.'
'We keep digging, we'll find more. Hopefully enough to get the Order by Monday.'
'Maybe,' Sean answered. 'Anyway, not much else you can do here tonight. Why
don't you go home for a bit or go for a drink?'
Donnelly glanced at his watch. 'Too late for the pub,' he sighed.
'You don't actually expect me to believe that Dave Donnelly doesn't know where
to get an after-hours drink from, do you?'
'Aye, well,' Donnelly stuttered, embarrassed and delighted at his infamy.
'And do me a favour,' Sean added, 'take Sally and Anna with you, will you? Just
keep your phones handy. I'll call if anything breaks.'
'Fair enough,' Donnelly cheerfully agreed and swept from his office back into
the main incident room, gathering up Sally and Anna despite their protests and
ushering them towards the swing-door exit and away.
Somehow their leaving made Sean breathe easier, as if he'd been relieved of a
burden he hadn't even known he'd been carrying. He rubbed his eyes hard,
waiting for the mist to clear before staring at the small mountain of papers
and reports he had to plough through. He couldn't let go of the feeling that he
already knew the answer, so why had his search of the Crime Reporting
Investigation System drawn a blank? Could he really be so wrong? 'No,' he
whispered to himself. 'I'm right, I know I am.' He pulled the pile of reports
towards him and began to read, at first without enthusiasm, sheet after sheet
of pointless bits of information, but as he sank deeper into the ocean of
intelligence he forgot what he was doing and where he was, drifting away on a
tide of possibilities. Every so often, he read something that stabbed excitedly
at his chest. But there were still too many possibles, too many people stopped
and questioned whom the interviewing officer had thought a little strange or
uncooperative. Too many men who'd appeared keen to avoid telling the police of
their whereabouts at the times of the crimes. Too many disused factories and
smallholdings to allow any one thing to stand out. He needed something to
cross-reference itself - a nervous postman stopped at a roadblock or living on
an abandoned farm. If he could find that in amongst the deluge of information,
if he could find that one report, he knew he would find his quarry.
The next time he looked up and into the main office it was empty and in as much
darkness as any police room ever is. He quickly looked at his watch and then
his phone, suddenly remembering he hadn't called Kate all day. Now it was two
a.m. and too late to do anything other than drop himself in it even more. If he
didn't phone he faced a few frosty hours next time he saw her, but if he did
and woke the kids, it wouldn't improve his popularity. He considered sending a
text, but decided it was too late to try anything.
He looked away from the phone and back to the slowly diminishing pile of
reports on his desk, resisting the urge to go home and grab a few hours' sleep
before everything started all over again the next morning. Lifting another
piece of paper to read, he promised himself that after this one he would pack
it in for the night. One more report, then he'd head home to the short fitful
sleep full of nightmares that waited for him - Louise Russell's near-naked body
lying in woods, her accusing eyes pleading with him for the answer - why? Why
hadn't he been able to find her in time?
He looked at the paper in his hands, his eyes so tired he could hardly focus,
the sick feeling in his stomach and the pounding in his head reminding him he
had forgotten to drink or eat since brunch with Anna. His eyes flickered until
the words settled and formed. It was an information report submitted by two
uniformed officers checking possible locations where the abducted women could
be being kept. Their names - PCs Ingram and Adams. They'd visited a disused
poultry factory out in Keston, on the Kent-London border. The report said the
land was poorly maintained and hazardous, but that it contained a small abode
and numerous outhouses. The man living on the land gave the name Thomas Keller,
twenty-eight years old, five foot nine inches tall, slim, white, identification
checked out OK and nothing particularly suspicious or untoward noted. Sean
frantically scanned the report for Keller's occupation, but none was shown.
'Damn it,' he cursed quietly. 'Fuck.' He began to move his index finger
backwards and forwards under the name Thomas Keller, backwards and forwards,
until finally he tossed it back on to his desk before cursing again.
'Christ, I'm fucking losing it,' he accused himself, convinced the tiredness
was close to making him hallucinate. 'Go home,' he told himself. 'For Christ's
sake, just go home.' He hauled himself from the chair he'd been stuck in for
more hours than he could remember, pulled on his coat, filling the pockets with
the trappings of his life and headed towards the exit. By the time he reached
the swing doors the name Thomas Keller had all but been wiped from his mind -
just another name on another information report. One of hundreds.
He lay in his bed tossing and turning until he could take no more of the
hellish images that tore around inside his head. Demons that always came in the
night, dancing behind his closed eyelids, never allowing him to escape his
cursed life - not even in sleep. Tonight had been worse than usual, somehow
more intense and vivid, as if he was reaching the climax of his very existence.
Finally, maybe the end was near. The end of this life and the beginning of the
next. He threw the soiled duvet off his overly slim, ugly body and stood in the
darkness, the moonlight from outside the only illumination, blue and cold.
Almost without thinking, as if he was unaware of his own intentions, he tugged
his tatty underpants down past his hips and let them fall to the floor,
stepping out of them and grabbing the tracksuit bottoms from the bedpost and
pulling them over his hairless, vein-ridden legs before recovering his hooded
top from the floor and struggling into it, searching in the faint light for his
training shoes and pushing his neglected feet into them. He grabbed the cellar
keys from the chest of drawers where he kept so many special things and walked
through the cramped, dingy house to the bathroom, taking a phial of alfentanil
and a syringe from the cabinet, drawing fifty-millilitres into it before
replacing the safety cap over the needle and marching to what served as the
front door, stopping only once more to recover the cattle prod from the same
kitchen cupboard where he kept his shotgun. For a moment he considered also
taking the stun-gun as he would have normally, but tonight, for some reason he
didn't. The cattle prod and alfentanil would be enough.
He stepped out into the bitter night, the clear skies allowing the temperature
to drop dramatically, the freezing, still air catching him by surprise, causing
his breath to shallow until his lungs adjusted to the cold mixture he forced
into them. As he strode through the night across the derelict yard, great
plumes of breath burst from his mouth, clouds of condensation reflecting the
moonlight before dying to nothing. He unlocked the padlock and pulled the metal
door to the cellar open, its scraping and screeching turning him to a statue as
he listened to the darkness for signs of danger, only daring to move once the
resonating sounds of the door had faded. Slowly he began to descend into the
faintest yellow light below, the underground cavern significantly warmer than
the world outside. He reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped into the
cellar, not speaking, waiting in the gloom, listening for the women, allowing
his eyes to adjust to the man-made light, feeling calmer than usual, more in
control, more instinctive, as if whatever was going to happen was somehow by
his unconscious design - clear and unstoppable. Fate. His and theirs.
After a few minutes he walked purposefully to the cage in which Louise Russell
cowered in the corner, her eyes wide with terror and suspicion, unblinking,
following his every slightest move, waiting for him to speak. But he just stood
next to her cage, staring in at her through the wire and faint light, until
finally he turned his back on her and walked mechanically to the string that
hung from the ceiling and acted as a light switch. He pulled the string and
washed the room with the weak light. She could see the cattle prod clearly now,
the memories of how he'd used it to torture Karen Green still painfully fresh -
how he'd used it to make her compliant the night he had taken her from her cage
and led her to the stairs, half helping her, half dragging her, ignoring her
pleas and promises to do whatever he wanted her to, just so long as he let her
stay. Life in the cage was better than no life at all.
Panic spread through Louise's body as she realized why he had come in the dead
of night. She scuttled around inside her cage like an animal sensing it's about
to be put down, looking for an escape she knew didn't exist, a weakness in the
metal wire she knew she wouldn't find - watching him with horror as he strode
back to her cage, moving around to the small hatch and unlocking it, placing
the prod on top of the cage while he took the syringe from his tracksuit
bottoms and removed the safety cap.
'Give me your arm,' he demanded, his voice strong, but cold and lifeless. She
wrapped her arms around her in a futile attempt to save them from the
inevitable. 'Give me your arm or you know what'll happen,' he warned, resting
his free hand on the cattle prod as a reminder of Karen Green's fate.
'No,' she pleaded. 'I can't. Please. I can't.' Tears streaked down her dirty
face leaving clean tracks through the thin layer of dust that had settled on
her skin over the last few days during which she hadn't been allowed to wash.
He stood and watched her for a while, then closed the hatch, replacing the
safety cap on the syringe and returning it to his pocket, recovering the prod
and moving around to the main door of the cage. Louise's terrified eyes
followed him every inch of the way, watching as he held the prod under his
armpit while he fumbled for the padlock key in his pocket. Her heart pounded
uncontrollably as she watched him slot the key into the lock and jiggle the
padlock free, her eyes darting from side to side. She felt her bowels and
bladder loosen as he slowly eased the door open, a trickle of urine running
down the inside of her legs.
Now he was in the cage with her, the cattle prod once more held firmly in his
hands, pointing straight towards her. She felt close to fainting as she
remembered Karen's body twisting and contorting each time he'd stabbed the prod
into her bare flesh, her screams of agony. She couldn't let that happen to her.
Her mind suddenly flashed with false hope, that maybe he had let Karen go free
- had taken her into the woods or city and released her, that the drug he had
given her was purely so she wouldn't remember where she'd been kept, that
Deborah had been wrong about her body being found, or that it had been the body
of someone else. 'Please,' she begged him, unfolding her arms and offering both
to him, each upturned and ready to be injected. 'I'm sorry. I'll do as you say.
I'll do anything you say.' He was so close, moving slowly towards her, his
mouth slightly open, revealing his crooked, stained teeth, his eyes narrow and
cruel.
'Too late for that,' he hissed at her. 'I know what you are, you little whore.'
She was about to speak, but the electricity that the cattle prod poured into
her body jammed her jaw shut as she fell on to her side, every muscle wracked
in spasm, the pain etching itself into her brain. The convulsion lasted a
matter of seconds, unlike the longer-lasting effects of the stun-gun, and she
felt her body begin to relax only to be punished again by another shot from the
prod and then another and another, in her spine, her stomach and thighs, until
she lay exhausted and motionless.
He stood over her, watching for signs that she was still capable of resisting
him, the deep scratches in his face reminding him to be cautious, even of
fallen prey. He kicked her without venom several times in her ribcage, causing
her to moan slightly, but barely stir. Satisfied, he knelt beside her, resting
the cattle prod on the floor and removing the syringe from his pocket, taking
her arm in his other hand and searching for a useable artery, but her
dehydration made it impossible to find one. He clasped the syringe in his teeth
and began to slap the crook of her arm, trying to raise the blood vessels,
until finally he saw the traces of a blue line running beneath her skin.
Quickly he clamped her arm just above the elbow with his fingers and waited for
the blood to dam and make the artery more prominent, watching without emotion
as it swelled to an almost normal size. He took the syringe from his teeth and
laid the needle across the blue line in her arm before bringing it to a shallow
angle and pushing its sharp point through her thin, pale skin, sinking it
deeply into the blood vessel, drawing the miniature plunger backwards first,
pulling a few millilitres of her own blood into the syringe, the red liquid
swirling and mixing with the alfentanil already inside. Then he remorselessly
pushed both blood and drug into her arm, the beat of her own heart rushing it
to the far reaches of her body. He pulled the needle from her artery and
waited, listening for the sigh he knew would ease from her mouth, a sigh that
would mean the anaesthetic had worked and she would now be unable to resist his
will. After a few seconds he heard what he was waiting to hear.
Looking down on Louise Russell's prostrate body he watched her chest gently
rise and fall as her half-shut eyes flickered, quiet moans coming from her
mouth, her arms lying behind her, above her head. He watched as her breasts
rose and fell, her lips opening and closing, as if she was speaking silent
words that only he could hear, telling him she wanted him, needed him, making
his already stiff penis harder than he could bear. 'I know you do, you little
whore. I know you desire me.' Hurriedly he pushed her legs apart and kneeled
between them, pulling his tracksuit trousers halfway down to his thighs and
releasing himself, swollen and grotesque. 'Look what you've done,' he chastised
her. 'You've made me as disgusting as you are. As weak as you are. You're
nothing to me now,' he told her, his face twisted with contempt.
Deborah had been looking on, transfixed in horror, but knowing what was coming
she could watch and listen no more. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, clamped
her hands over her ears, but she couldn't block out the sound of him grunting
and whining, she couldn't block out the involuntary cries and moans of his
victim. Humming to herself as loudly as she dared, she waited until the
terrible sounds of Louise's torture relented before summoning the courage to
look back at the other cage, watching as Keller pulled up his trousers. He knew
she was looking but he seemed unable to meet her eyes, panting and breathing
heavily after the effort of his assault.
'See what you made me do,' he asked Louise. 'Well, you've tricked me for the
last time. You won't cheapen me again. You're the little whore now, not me.'
His voice was flat and mechanical, devoid of emotion. 'It's time for you to go.
I don't want you here any more.'
He hauled Louise to her feet and hauled her from her cage. Deborah tried to
speak, to scream at him to stop, to leave Louise alone, but no words came from
her open mouth, the terror of knowing what was going to happen to Louise
striking her dumb. She looked on in silence as he half-dragged and
half-assisted the partially anaesthetized woman across the cellar floor,
pulling the string that returned the cellar to near darkness as he passed it.
Still Deborah couldn't speak as she listened to him leading Louise around the
corner to the stairs, the sound of their shuffling, unsteady feet more awful
than anything she'd ever heard.
The metallic clang of the door being closed and locked was followed by silence,
broken only by the sound of running water. For the first time since he'd taken
her, Deborah was alone. But for how long?
Louise's terribly prophesy had come true. It was her turn now - her turn to
become Louise Russell. To become Karen Green.
Deborah sank to the floor of her cage and hugged herself, rocking and crying in
the twilight of the cellar. Alone.
12
Sean drove through the virtually deserted streets of south-east London to his
modest terraced home in Dulwich, the empty roads making the short journey a
fast one. He enjoyed the peaceful eeriness of the streets at dawn, a
nether-world that few other than emergency service workers ever saw, at least
while they were sober. It reminded him of his early days in the police, a young
uniformed officer driving home after a night-shift, tired but content, watching
all the bleary-eyed commuters driving in the other direction. It made him feel
different - unique. He parked as close as he could to his house and walked the
short distance to the front door, his footsteps heavier than he would have
wished in the quiet of the night, although thankfully a gusting wind disguised
his approach. As he unlocked the door he was pleased to see Kate had followed
his often repeated instructions and had used the dead-lock as well, not just
relying on the far more easily opened latch-lock. He eased the door open and
stepped into his home, the warmth and comforting scent of his family
temporarily chasing away the daytime demons. Kate had left a small lamp on for
him, her own experiences of arriving home in the dead of night making her
appreciate a little illumination when first stepping inside your own house,
while at the same time not wanting to turn the more powerful overhead lights on
and risk disturbing the rest of the family while they slept. Police and
doctors, firemen and nurses - eternal teenagers who would never be allowed to
grow out of sneaking into their own homes in the middle of the night, forever
fearful of capture.
He closed the door behind him even more carefully than he'd opened it, slipped
his shoes off and tiptoed to the kitchen, where he turned on the lights of the
overhead extractor-hood to help him navigate his way around. Next he emptied
his pockets on to a newspaper on the kitchen table, its density nullifying the
sound of his phone, keys, wallet, warrant card and assorted coins as they hit
the surface. He hung his raincoat and jacket over a chair, loosened his tie
even more than it already was and headed for the cupboard where he knew he'd
find a bottle of Jack Daniel's and a short, fat glass. He poured himself what
he thought he could get away with and still be able to drag himself out of his
bed in little more than three hours' time and sat at the table, sighing loudly
as he felt the pain in all his joints at once.
Three hours' sleep wasn't going to be anywhere near enough to allow his body
and mind to regroup. He tried to work out how many hours he'd been awake for,
but exhaustion made the problem almost impossible to solve and he soon gave up.
The clock hanging on the kitchen wall warned him it was nearly 2.30 a.m. He
gave another sigh and stared into the drink in his hand, the bourbon the only
thing he could think of that was going to slow his thoughts enough to allow any
sort of sleep to come. He drank it in one go, burning his throat and chest as
it headed for his empty stomach, the lack of food making the effects of the
alcohol instant and satisfying.
He heaved himself out of the chair, left the kitchen and climbed the stairs. As
he passed his daughters' bedroom, he tried to resist peeking in through the gap
in the door but failed, the faint blue light from their night lamps somehow
making them look even more alive than they did in natural light, although he
could barely remember the last time he'd seen them in daylight. Two little
girls who before he knew it would become young women - just like the young
women the madman had taken. His eldest daughter even had the same name - Louise.
Sean chased the thoughts away as quickly as they'd come - they had no place in
his home. He eased his head back through the gap and sneaked into his bedroom,
Kate's shape clear underneath the duvet, still and silent. He undressed in the
dark, draping his clothes over the only chair in the room, and slipped into
bed, the bourbon acting like an anaesthetic, like the chloroform the madman
used on his victims. Again he chased the thoughts away, thoughts that had no
place in his bed as he lay next to his wife.
Kate's voice startled him - not the voice of someone who had been asleep and
then woken, but the voice of someone who hadn't been able to sleep - the voice
of someone who had been waiting for him. 'If you're home, then I assume you
haven't caught him yet. You haven't found the women.'
'No.' His heart was still racing from the surprise. 'Not yet, but it won't be
long. I'm sure of it. We're coming to the end. I'll be meeting him soon.'
'How d'you know? Have you found something?'
'No,' he answered, 'but I will. The answer's there, just waiting for me to see
it.'
'I know what you mean,' she said, giving him an idea.
'Kate.'
'Uhhhm.'
'What do you do when you've got a patient who is critically ill, one you've
tried everything on, done everything to try and save them, everything that
should have helped them recover, yet their condition goes on getting worse and
worse? What would you do?'
She thought in silence for a while before answering. 'In that scenario I would
assume I'd missed something. I'd go back over everything I'd done and
double-check I hadn't missed anything.'
'And if you hadn't?' he asked. 'What then?'
Kate rolled over to look at him, her face little more than a silhouette. 'If
that was the case,' she said, 'then the patient would die and we'd all feel
really bad, even though there was nothing we could have done.'
She kissed him on the cheek and rolled over to sleep, leaving him to stare at
the ceiling in the darkness. Alone.
She stumbled through the trees, arms wrapped around her torso in a futile
effort to keep out the cold, her only clothing the same soiled underwear he'd
given her days before - how many days she couldn't be sure of any more. Her
bare feet stepped on sharp stones and thorns as she stumbled, her arms
untwisting from her body as she tried to steady himself, her head occasionally
turning to look at the hooded figure who followed close behind, a stumpy
baseball bat in one hand and the cattle prod in the other. Whenever she slowed
too much she felt the bat being jabbed into her spine, driving her on to a fate
he had decided for her, the alfentanil's effects making her too weak and
uncoordinated to either run or fight. All she could do was beg for her life.
'Please,' she sobbed. 'You don't have to do this.' Her words were slurred but
clear enough. 'I won't tell anyone. I promise.' Another stab in the back
propelled her on, the cold breeze feeling like a gale on her exposed skin. She
stumbled again, gathering more lacerations to her feet and body, as if the
trees were his accomplices, cruelly bending to lash her with their thin
branches. 'I have a husband,' she pleaded. 'My children need me,' she lied,
desperate to try and reach the man trapped inside the monster.
'Liar,' he said. 'You don't have children. You shouldn't lie about things like
that. If you do, I'll know.'
'You were watching me,' she accused him. 'You've been watching me for weeks.'
She stopped and turned to face him, expecting the stab of the bat in her spine,
but it didn't come.
'I thought you were the one,' he told her. 'I thought you were her, but I was
wrong. I have no need of you now. You were a mistake.'
'No,' she tried to reach him. 'Maybe I am her? You need to help me be her. I
can be her. I know I can - for you.'
'No,' he barked. 'It's too late. Keep moving.'
'I can't,' she pleaded, leaning with her back to a tree. 'No more, please. No
more.'
'Just a little further and you can go,' he promised. 'I'm not going to kill
you. Just a little further and you can go.'
She knew the hope he had given her was a false hope, but it was all she had and
she clung to it. 'You'll let me go?' she asked breathlessly. He nodded in the
moonlight. 'You promise?'
'Just a little further.' He pointed deeper into the woods with the bat.
Louise pushed herself from the tree, brushing the thin branches away from her
face with her outstretched arms, closing her eyes in silent prayer, feeling her
way through the trees until she sensed she was in a clearing, the ground softer
under her feet where invading sunlight had allowed grass to grow and all around
her an eerie flapping sound, as if hundreds of birds were trapped in the
surrounding trees, unable to escape, not matter how hard they beat their wings.
She opened her eyes and walked into the open space, looking for the source of
the strange sound, but couldn't see it in the darkness, feeling him behind her,
getting closer, and she knew, she knew this would be where he killed her. If he
was going to let her go, he would have melted back into the woods by now, a
ghost disappearing into the waiting shadows, but he hadn't. He'd known this
clearing was here and he'd known this was where he was going to bring her. This
would be the place where she took her last breath.
Panic and the animal will to survive swept away most of the effects of the
anaesthetic, her body becoming aware and alert. She sprang forward into the
clearing, her bare feet pushing off the soft ground strongly, but he was ready,
as if he'd anticipated she would try to run. Within four strides she felt her
legs kicked from under her, sending her unsupported body flying through the air
until it crashed hard into the ground, knocking the wind and fight from her,
leaving her disorientated and confused. She gave herself a few seconds then
rose to her knees, looking around, trying to get her bearings, a new direction
to run in, but before she could do either the dark figure stepped in front of
her, each hand still clutching a weapon. She gazed up at him, blinking, trying
to focus on the blackness inside the hood where his face should have been.
'Please,' she pleaded. 'Please.' He tossed the bat to one side and slipped the
cattle prod inside his trouser pocket, still standing above her, staring down.
Millimetre by millimetre his hands moved from his sides, stretching out towards
her, reaching for her throat as she watched through her tears, her own hands
slowly rising to meet his, her fingers curling around his wrists, but barely
able to resist at all, as if she was guiding his hands to her, strong, thin
fingers coiling around her neck as his thumbs sank into her throat, slowly
crushing her trachea. The blood supply to and from her brain fell to nothing,
her eyes bulging under the pressure and her swollen tongue protruding from her
mouth searching for oxygen. For a brief second she thought she could see her
husband, hear his voice, see the children she'd so often imagined having, their
presence encouraging her to frantically claw and scratch at the hands clamping
her throat, but she had grown too weak and he too strong. Finally her resisting
fingers slowed and slipped away from his, her arms becoming too heavy to hold
up any more as they fell limp at her side, and an ugly hiss leaked from her
mouth - the last sound she would ever make.
He kept his hands wrapped tightly around her neck, staring at the dead creature
he held kneeling in front of him, glad he hadn't knocked her semi-unconscious
with the baseball bat before squeezing the life from her. The sudden
overwhelming desire to see her slip from this world to the next had been
impossible to resist, to see her full life-force leave her body, not just the
remains after he'd partially caved her head in as he had with Karen Green. This
had been so much more rewarding.
He held her for a long time, watching until her dead staring eyes began to mist
over, then he released his grip and allowed her to slump to the ground, falling
in an almost foetal position, except for her arms, one of which was trapped
under her body while the other had fallen behind her back in a pose only the
dead could bear. Still he stood over her, wondering why it felt different to
the last time. Then he realized that the difference was he had actually felt
something this time - something calm and powerful.
The freezing breeze blowing into his face slowly drew him back to the real
world, the dead woman at his feet inconsequential. It was time for him to
leave. He crouched next to the body and awkwardly removed her underwear and
bra, rolling them together and pushing them into the pocket of his hooded top
before returning her limbs to almost exactly the same position she had fallen
in without knowing or considering why. He looked at Louise Russell one last
time then turned, striding back into the trees heading towards his car and
home. Tomorrow was Sunday. He would rest for a day - get things ready - clean
the cage and her clothes, once he'd taken them off the woman who was wearing
them now. Then on Monday, after work, he'd rescue her. He already knew where
she lived and how she lived. He'd been watching her a long time, just like he
had the others, but this time he was sure she was the one, even if she didn't
know it herself.
13
It was barely six thirty a.m. Sunday morning and Anna was already awake and
showered, sitting on the edge of her bed unrolling a pair of tights along her
legs as her husband looked on through tired, sleepy eyes. He hadn't seen her
look so exhausted in years, if ever. 'I'll be glad when this is all over,' he
mumbled. 'Half-past six on a Sunday - what's the matter with these people?
Don't they know this is supposed to be a day of rest?'
'I don't suppose they have much choice, do they?' she reprimanded him, feeling
a little bit like a cop for the first time, living by different rules and
values to everyone around her, but not always liking it.
'Do you have to go?'
'Sorry, Charlie.' She stood to straighten her skirt. 'Duty calls.'
'Try and get home a little earlier today,' he insisted. 'It would be nice to
actually see you sometime this weekend.'
'I can't promise anything at the moment,' she warned him. 'I'll be back when
I'm back.'
Charles Temple propped himself up against his pillow and reached for the packet
of cigarettes by his bedside, tapping one from the box and lighting it with a
gold-plated Zippo. 'Fuck's sake, Charlie,' Anna moaned. 'Do you have to smoke
in bed? In fact, do you have to smoke in the house at all? Now I'm going to
stink of fags.'
'Then you'll probably smell like the rest of them,' he teased. 'Like a proper
cop. A proper detective.'
'What's that supposed to mean?' she snapped.
'Nothing,' he answered with a smirk. 'Anyway, I only smoke at the weekends.'
'You shouldn't smoke at all - you're a bloody surgeon,' she reminded him. He
merely shrugged his shoulders.
'I must say, you seem quite smitten with your little police buddies. Something
must have pricked your interest to have you running off to Peckham, of all
places, on a Sunday morning.'
'I'm working, remember?' she reminded him.
'Really?' he asked with mock suspicion.
'Yes, really. What is it you're implying?'
'Just thought you might've fallen for this DI's animalistic charms. A bit of
rough, and all that.'
'His name's Sean Corrigan and he's neither rough or charming.'
'Like him, though, don't you?'
'No really,' she laughed. 'Besides, he's work. Or rather, it's work.'
Bored with his little game, he gave a dismissive wave of his cigarette.
'Whatever. Just hurry up and help the cops catch this sicko so we can return to
a normal life.'
'Is that what you think I'm there to do?' she demanded, suddenly serious,
annoyed by his ignorance as much as she was by her own feelings of deceit and
treachery. 'You think I'm there to help the police find this offender?'
'Aren't you?' he questioned, puzzled.
'Partly,' she admitted, 'but it's not as simple as that. Never mind. I need to
get going.'
'Try not to let it get to you,' he warned her, without really caring. 'Be like
the cops, blank it all out.'
'You think it has no effect on them - seeing young lives torn away, dealing
with the families of the victims? You think they just carry on, business as
usual, and forget about it? Forget about everything?'
'Don't tell me you're going native on me, Detective Chief Inspector
Ravenni-Ceron.'
'No,' she answered. 'I could never be one of them. Even if I worked with them
for ten years, I'd never be one of them. For that to happen I'd have to become
a police officer. They're a closed shop to outsiders, it's just the way they
operate.'
'But you admire them, don't you?' he seemed to accuse her, as if admiration was
a betrayal of their own preconceived self-importance.
'Of course I do,' she snapped back. 'If you saw what they had to do and how
they had to do it, the hours they have to work, the lack of sleep or rest - and
still they keep going, never asking for or expecting anyone's gratitude, always
expecting to be kicked when they're down and blamed for everything that goes
wrong in the world, but doing what they have to do anyway - if you saw that the
way I've seen it, you'd admire them too.'
'Don't get too hooked on your new friends, Anna,' he warned. 'They're only
temporary, remember? It's like you said, you can never be one of them.'
'If you think I'm hooked, you must be delusional,' she told him. 'I want this
over as much as you do, but not until I find out what I'm there to find out.'
'And what would that be?'
'I'm not sure,' she answered as she pulled her suit jacket on. 'Not any more.'
Sean pushed through the swing doors into the main incident room and found it
deserted. He checked his watch - just gone half-past six in the morning. The
office looked like a tip: dirty plates left on desks, mugs stained with
half-drunk coffee dumped on every conceivable surface, rubbish bins overflowing
with polystyrene cups, plastic sandwich boxes and screwed-up balls of paper
that should have been shredded and placed in the confidential waste sacks, but
people were getting too tired to care. He remembered it was Sunday, so the
cleaners wouldn't be through the office until the following morning. Things
would get a lot worse before they got better. He couldn't help but draw
comparisons between the state of the office and the state of the investigation.
Sundays - he always felt something bad was about to happen on Sunday and this
was no different. Sundays as a child meant his father would be around more than
usual, drinking, leading him by the hand to the upstairs bedroom, away from the
rest of his family and his mother. Blind eyes turned.
He pushed the memories aside as he crossed the room and slunk into his office,
throwing the contents of his pockets across his cluttered desk and hanging his
raincoat on one of the metal hooks on the back of his door that served as a
coat-rack. He considered sitting on the uncomfortable chair waiting for him
behind his desk, but knew he needed to keep moving for a while, or at least
standing. The few hours' sleep and a hot shower had revived him somewhat, but
if he sat in the chair now, as uncomfortable as it was, the tiredness would
sweep back over him and beg him to allow his body and mind to sleep. He
couldn't let that happen. He was already feeling guilty about going home when
the killer was still out there, the lives of two women Sean had never met
hanging on his ability to find them.
It was too early for the local cafes, or even the station canteen, to be open,
so the caffeine he both craved and needed would have to come from something
other than his usual black coffee. Still standing he rummaged through the desk
drawers for his caffeine tablets, pushing aside packets of ibuprofen,
paracetamol and indigestion tablets until he found what he was looking for,
popping two from the silver foil and swallowing them without water, then taking
another without checking the dosage instructions. 'I'm getting too old for
this,' he muttered to himself as he began to push papers around his desk,
waiting for the tablets to stimulate his brain enough for him to begin reading
through the seemingly endless reports, the memory of last night's fitful sleep
fading to nothing - the dreams of trees in the dark, the constant hissing of
the leaves in the breeze, the faceless man in the hooded top standing over a
semi-naked Louise Russell giving way to the images that would plague him during
the day to come.
As he looked around his office his attention was drawn to an enlarged
photograph of Louise Russell's face stuck to his whiteboard, her green eyes
staring at him, pleading with him to find her - to save her. Involuntarily his
hand came from his side and reached out to her, his index finger tracing the
outline of her face. He stepped back with a jolt as an image of her yet-to-be
crime-scene photographs flashed in his mind. The green eyes were still staring
out at him, only now they were lifeless, no longer pleading but accusing -
damning him.
When the image cleared he stepped forward and studied her picture again. 'Are
you still alive?' he asked her. 'Am I too late?'
The sound of Sally barging through the swing doors helped him look away from
the photograph. They nodded hellos at a distance as he watched her go through
the same routine of emptying her coat pockets on to her desk as he had just
minutes earlier. He moved to the door frame of his office entrance. 'How's it
going?' he asked without enthusiasm.
'Well, it's barely seven o'clock in the morning, my eyes are sore and so are my
feet, it's Sunday and I'm at work ... Other than that, I'm great. How about
you?'
'The same,' he answered without smiling.
'Any news on Louise Russell?'
Sean knew what she meant - had a body been discovered overnight or was there
still a chance? 'No one's called me, so I'm assuming things remain the same.'
'It's Sunday, remember,' she warned him. 'People walk their dogs later on a
Sunday morning. My guess is we won't be in the clear until about nine-ish.'
'We should have one more day,' he argued, 'provided he keeps to his seven-day
cycle.' He spoke more in hope than belief, the fear that the killer was
spiralling towards an end game - an orgy of unrelenting violence - marred his
faint optimism.
'Let's hope he does,' Sally muttered, looking away distractedly, searching
through the notes and memos on her desk, mumbling to herself more than to him.
'What time's that bloody canteen open on a Sunday? Their coffee's foul, but
it's better than nothing.'
Sean didn't answer, sliding back into his office and shuffling paper around on
his desk only to look up and see the big, white-faced clock hanging on his
wall. Sally was right - they had to survive past nine o'clock. Louise Russell
had to survive past nine o'clock. If her body hadn't been found by then, she
might still be alive and maybe he had as much as another twenty-four hours to
find her before ... But even that wouldn't give him enough time to get a
Production Order, serve it and then gain access to the employee records at the
sorting office. He needed something to break today - something to fall into
place - something that would tear down the brick wall between the madman and
him.
In sudden desperation he grabbed a chair and pulled it up to his computer desk,
sitting astride it as his fingers began to nimbly type on the keyboard. He
called up the CRIS system and punched in the instructions for the same search
he'd already carried out with a negative result. 'I know you stalked the woman
they're replacements for, you must have. You must have watched her and you must
have known her and she you. She couldn't have been some stranger you obsessed
over - she accepted you, but then something happened and she was taken away
from you, but what and how? I know I'm right,' he reassured himself. 'I have to
be.'
He typed in the details of the crime he was searching for, the description of a
young woman matching that of the three women he'd taken. He pressed the key to
run the search and pushed himself away from the desk while he waited for the
result, his heart hammering inside his ribcage. 'I have to be right,' he told
himself, 'I must have missed something.' After a few seconds the screen blinked
and changed to the results page. The search had returned no results. 'Fuck,' he
called out loudly enough to make Sally look up. Last night's conversation with
Kate began to play over and over in his mind.
... I would assume I'd missed something. I'd go back over everything I'd done
and double-check I hadn't missed anything.
And if you hadn't? What then?
Then the patient would die ...
He pulled himself and the chair back to the computer and began again, this time
expanding the age group of the victim by a few years either way - no results.
He tried changing the length of the victim's hair; maybe she'd had it cut since
he knew her - no results. He tried changing the height of the victim a few
inches either way - no results. He tried removing the specific eye colour - no
results. Over and over he tried, but it was always the same - no results.
The sound of a phone ringing in the main office somehow cut through his
concentration when other distractions had not. His head spun to look at the big
clock - it was almost eight o'clock. Christ, he'd been fruitlessly searching
the CRIS database for more than an hour without even noticing the detectives
who'd been slowly arriving and filling the office with chatter and noise,
including Donnelly - but the phone ringing, its shrill electronic chirping, was
something he'd been unable to block out. Why? Once again his heart started
kicking and punching his chest walls. He felt his throat grow tight as he
watched Sally lift the corded phone from its receiver and hold it to the side
of her face as if everything was happening in slow motion, but only to him. He
watched her listen to the caller, lip-reading as she responded, Where? She
wrote something on a piece of paper, hung up and got to her feet, turning
towards his office, head down, eyes cast to the floor.
Silently he cursed her for walking towards him with the piece of paper in her
hand. He cursed her for answering the damn phone and he cursed her for what she
was about to tell him. She reached his door and looked up into his eyes without
stepping inside. 'I'm sorry,' was all she said.
He felt the life force flowing out of him, as if he'd been shot in the chest at
point-blank range, the realization of what he was being told stabbing at his
fragile self-belief. He'd failed - failed to solve the puzzle in time - and now
she was dead. The madman had killed Louise Russell, but her blood would be for
ever on Sean's hands. Her lifeless staring green eyes would for ever haunt his
dreams.
It had been a long night and he hadn't got to bed until the early hours of the
morning, the night's events leaving him excited but calm, for the time being at
any rate. But as the light penetrated through the thin sheets tacked over the
windows of his home, his sleep grew increasingly restless - the deep sleep of
oblivion replaced by the shallow sleep that allowed the nightmares to come.
He was young, only seven or eight, and already a veteran of the children's home
in Penge, south-east London. Other children had come and gone, but he remained.
It was Sunday - the day when the grown-ups came to look at them, to talk to
them and take them out for the day and buy them sweets and ice cream, maybe
even take them home - just for a day visit at first, then for a night or two,
and then, who knows, maybe take them home for ever. The youngest children were
usually snapped up quite quickly, especially if they didn't have siblings, but
the older children, the teenagers, rarely left. They used to tell him that if
you were still there when you were ten, then you'd stay there for ever.
There had been no day trips for Thomas Keller for a while, no ice cream or
visits to normal homes - not since his last trip. There had been suspicions
even before that - incidents. At first nobody could be certain he was
responsible. Nobody wanted to consider the consequences if he had been
responsible - what that would signify, what that would mean he was. At first it
was a case of things going missing, toys belonging to the other children in the
family he was visiting. Nobody wanted to make a fuss, after all it was
understandable, the other children had so much and he had so little. Nobody
wanted him to get into trouble, but they didn't want him to visit again either,
if that was OK with the staff at the children's home. But then it wasn't just
any toys, it was the special toys - the treasured teddy bears and dollies the
children of the host family had had since they were babies. Some turned up,
some didn't, but the ones they found were always the same - slashed open with
something sharp, the stuffing pulled out and the limbs removed. Still nobody
wanted to make a fuss; he was angry and jealous, it was understandable given
what had happened to him - they just didn't want him to visit again. But it
didn't stop there.
As he grew older and bolder, the family pets became his targets: the tropical
fish killed by someone pouring bleach into their tank; the mice and hamsters
and gerbils that went missing from their cages and were later found buried in
the garden. Again, nobody could be a hundred per cent certain he was
responsible. But suspicions had grown stronger when a family's cat disappeared,
only to be found hanging from a tree with a wire cord bound around its neck,
swinging gently in the wind, eyes bulging, tongue protruding. They'd gone in
search of Thomas then and discovered him, alone in a neighbour's garden,
withdrawn and silent, eyes staring madly with telltale scratches covering his
hands and wrists - the cat had marked its killer.
Some at the children's home had said enough was enough, he should never be
placed with a family again. Others argued that they had a duty to try, but that
families who had animals, any animals, must be avoided - at least until they
could overcome his cruelty towards them. Reluctantly, the doubters agreed.
A few weeks later he had gone on a day visit to the home of a Christian family
who believed that between God and themselves any child could be saved. They'd
been watching him closely, as they'd been warned to do, but somehow he'd
managed to sneak away. There was concern, but no panic - or at least there
wasn't until they realized their five-year-old daughter was also missing. She'd
been playing alone in her bedroom with her dolls, and now she was missing. The
mother had been hysterical and wanted to call the police immediately, but the
father had urged her to wait, saying he would go and find them. There was no
sign of them in the house, nor in the garden, nor the garage. So he began to
search the alley that ran behind the back gardens. And that was where he found
them - in a shed in a neighbour's back garden, his five-year-old daughter
standing naked, tears rolling down her face as Thomas Keller stood in front of
her, his trousers and underpants pulled to his knees, a tiny erection gripped
between the fingers and thumb of one hand while the other pointed the blade of
a penknife at the stricken girl.
The Christian father charged in and swatted Thomas to the floor with an open
hand. 'You sick little bastard! I'm going to teach you a lesson you'll never
forget,' he told him. Then he proceeded to slip the leather belt from his
waistband, gripping the buckle and letting the rest uncoil like a whip. Thomas
had watched as the man's big hand eased the shed door closed, raising the belt
above his head.
What followed had indeed taught him a lesson, one he never would forget - he
was alone and always would be. Totally alone.
After that day there were no more visits for Thomas Keller.
Sean and Sally bumped along the dirt road through Elmstead Woods on the
Kent-London border. They'd hardly spoken the entire length of the journey from
Peckham. Sean saw two marked police cars and knew they were in the right place.
A long strip of blue-and-white police tape closed off the road ahead of where
the cars were parked. Sean pulled in behind them and he and Sally climbed from
the car in what looked a synchronized movement. One of the uniformed cops who'd
been sheltering from the morning chill jumped out of his car and approached
them.
Sean held up his warrant card: 'DI Corrigan' - he nodded towards Sally - 'and
DS Jones. Why have you taped the road off?' The woods to his side he expected
to be cordoned off, but not necessarily the road.
'Tyre tracks,' explained the uniform. 'Looks like he pulled up on the side of
the road, where the ground's softer. Left some pretty good tyre marks - and
footprints too. Two people, by the look of it, one wearing trainers, the
other--'
Sean cut him off: 'The other barefoot.' He saw the confusion in the officer's
face. 'The last victim - she was barefoot too.'
The uniform didn't speak, but his face said everything.
As Sean looked around, breathing in the atmosphere of the woods - he felt the
madman's presence. The place stank of him. They could have been back in the
woods where they'd found Karen Green; the two places were so similar he could
hardly tell one from the other. 'Who found her?' he asked. 'A dog walker?'
'No,' the uniformed cop replied. 'It was too early for most dog walkers round
here on a Sunday. She was found by a birdwatcher looking for pied wagtails, or
so he tells me. Good time of year for it, apparently.'
'I wouldn't know,' said Sean distractedly. 'Anything suspicious about your
birdwatcher?'
'You're asking the wrong person, sir. I didn't meet him. That was another local
unit - they took him back to the nick before we got here.'
'I see,' Sean answered, still not interested in what he was being told - merely
going through the question-and-answer routine the uniformed cops would expect.
He knew the man he hunted wouldn't have reported the body to the police in some
self-destructive game of risk. He'd be back in whatever hovel he'd crawled
from, dreaming of his night's work and fantasizing about more good times ahead.
Sean looked at the ground on the edge of the forest where he could make out the
tyre-tracks the uniformed cop had mentioned and the accompanying footprints,
both of which disappeared into the grass as they headed deeper into the trees.
Beyond the treeline his eyes could see nothing, but his mind could see
everything - the madman walking close behind Louise Russell as he marched her
towards her death, occasionally shoving her in the back to encourage her to
keep walking.
'Guv'nor ...' Sally asked without being heard. Then, louder: 'Sean.'
'Sorry. What is it?'
'You OK?'
'I'm fine,' he lied. 'What about you?'
She shrugged, but he could see the tension and fear in her face. This would be
the first time she'd been to a crime scene where the body was still in situ
since she'd almost become a murder victim herself. Sean knew that when she saw
Louise Russell's body she would be seeing herself. 'You don't have to do this,'
he told her. 'I can go alone. You can wait here or search the perimeter for
something that might have been missed.'
Sally breathed in deeply through her nose, desperately wishing she still
smoked. 'No,' she said. 'I think I need to do this.'
'OK,' he agreed, turning back to the cop guarding his crime scene. 'Do you have
an alternative route to the victim?'
'Sure - duck under the tape across the road there and keep going for a few
metres. You'll come to some more tape leading into the woods. Just follow that
tape all the way and it'll take you straight to her.'
He sounded as if he was giving a lost motorist directions, but Sean admired his
professionalism - using crime-scene cordon tape to mark a forensically safe
path to the victim was a sound idea.
Sean took one last look at the soft ground where the training shoe prints led
both into and out of the wood, but the barefoot prints led only in - so the
killer had probably exited the same way he'd entered, leaving them with one
route to concentrate on. It also meant the killer had chosen the path of least
resistance, both before and after he'd killed her. Clearly convenience was
still more important to him than concealing forensic evidence.
Sean walked past the parked police cars and ducked under the tape, holding it
higher for Sally to follow, like a trainer helping his boxer enter the ring.
Without speaking they followed the treeline until they found the trampled
ground and tape that snaked into the woods, like Hansel and Gretel's trail of
breadcrumbs. They began to stumble deeper into the wood, their city footwear
and clothing hindering their progress - long coats catching on branches that
seemed to reach out and search for them, their smooth-soled shoes constantly
slipping on the damp grass and moss, the air surrounding them both heavy and
fresh, the strong breeze encouraging Sally to button her coat as they walked
ever closer to Louise Russell's body. 'D'you think it's much further?' she
asked, more out of a need to say something than curiosity, the constant eerie
rustling sound from the trees, like waves breaking on a deserted pebble beach,
increasingly spooking her.
'I don't know,' he answered truthfully, wishing he could have walked the same
path the killer and Louise Russell had, but knowing he couldn't. He reminded
himself that their journey into the woods would have been almost exactly the
same as his and Sally's, but somehow not stepping in the killer's footsteps was
stopping him feeling how he would have felt - stopping him seeing what he would
have seen. He pushed a branch away from his face, but it sprang loose and
whipped back, an unseen sharpness cutting him along his cheekbone, just under
his left eye. 'Bastard,' he cried out, putting the back of his hand to the
wound, seeing the blood when he took it away.
'You all right?' Sally asked.
He kept walking. 'I'm fine.'
'I don't know how Roddis and his forensic team are gonna hump their gear
through this.'
'They might have to wake someone up at the council - get a few blokes down here
with chainsaws to cut a decent path. If that's what we have to do, then that's
what we have to do.'
'Roddis won't like it,' Sally warned, 'letting civilians that close to his
crime scene.'
'Yeah, well, that's his problem, not ours,' muttered Sean, tired of the small
talk that was clouding his mind. He pushed ahead more quickly, not caring if
the branches of trees punished his recklessness further, subconsciously hoping
he would leave Sally behind, temporarily lost in the woods, allowing him to be
alone with Louise Russell and any remaining traces of the man he hunted - be
they physical or otherwise. But Sally kept pace with him, the fear of being
abandoned in the woods driving her on.
'Nice of the uniforms to warn us about the route they'd chosen. If I'd known I
was gonna get my tights laddered I'd've stayed with the car.'
Sean saw through her bravado - trying to be flippant and jokey to conceal her
anxiety. But at least it was a sign of the old Sally breaking through. Perhaps
she did need this - needed to go through it before she could start truly
healing.
'They did the right thing,' he said, pushing deeper into the woods. 'Choosing
the path of most resistance is exactly what our man would never do.'
'You know that, do you?'
He stopped and looked at her for a moment. 'Yes,' was all he said. They locked
eyes, not speaking, until he turned away and carried on walking.
Sally waited a few seconds then followed, watching him ahead of her, pushing
through branches that closed behind him, obscuring her view, as if he and the
trees were conspiring to isolate her. For the first time since they'd entered
the woods she became aware of the sound of birds all around them - the shrill
alarm whistles of blackbirds warning the dwellers of the forest of their
approach mixing with the mocking laughter of magpies. She was sure Sean was
unaware of the avian eyes observing their intrusion. He was going to another
place, forcing himself to enter into the mind of the murderer - a place where
she didn't belong, where she wasn't wanted. She allowed Sean the distance he
needed.
Every step he took towards Louise Russell was a step closer to the madman, and
with every step he took he changed a little more, his thoughts and those of the
killer beginning to merge. He was close now and Sean could feel him, see
through his eyes: the woods at night with nothing other than the moon to light
the way, the sharp branches grabbing and scratching at her bare skin, catching
and pulling at his loose clothes, feeling calm and in control, almost for the
first time in his life, accepting what he had to do with no trace of doubt or
guilt.
Suddenly the sound of the woods seemed to change, the hissing of the leaves
replaced with a strange alien sound, like the flapping of thousands of tiny
man-made wings or hundreds of broken kites. He kept following the length of
blue-and-white tape that appeared to be leading him directly to the source of
the mysterious noise. What must she have been thinking, he wondered - alone in
the dark woods with the madman, not knowing what beast, man or animal was
making the terrible flapping sound? Suddenly he stepped into a clearing,
instinctively thrusting out his arm behind him until he was sure that the
source of the sound represented no danger to them.
As he looked around the clearing he saw what was making the hellish noise -
dozens of empty plastic bags trapped on the barbs of the bramble-bushes, blown
here from God knows where, inflating and flapping in the breeze like obscene
Christmas decorations, tattered and haunting. In the moonlight Louise Russell
would not have been able to see the innocent, harmless things that serenaded
her death.
'Christ,' he said out loud. 'What were you thinking when you heard that sound?'
Another voice reminded him he was not alone.
'Sean?' called Sally. 'Is everything OK?'
'Everything's fine,' he answered. 'Just give me a few seconds.'
He forced his eyes from the bramble-bushes and scanned the clearing, until
there, almost dead centre, about twenty feet away he saw her, partially covered
in brown leaves swept over her by the wind, piled up against her in the
direction the breeze had been travelling. Even from this distance he could see
she was lying on her side, her knees apparently folded in a near foetal
position. Her pale skin contrasted somehow beautifully with the rich brown of
the leaves and the green of the moss that provided her soft deathbed. His eyes
followed the outskirts of the clearing until he saw the place where both killer
and victim would have entered - a break in the trees, where the wood wasn't so
dense - the path of least resistance. A trail of flattened grass and moss led
from the same place to where Louise Russell's body was lying. Another path
stretched out directly in front of him, made by the first officers on scene who
confirmed the birdwatcher's fears - he had indeed stumbled across a dead body
lying in the woods.
Sean wondered which direction the birdwatcher would have approached from and
decided it was most likely the same one as the killer. He might have entered
the woods at a different point, but at some point the paths they'd used had
joined. The birdwatcher was about to lose his favourite walking boots to Roddis.
Finally he lowered his hand, signalling it was safe for Sally to move forward.
After a few seconds he felt her by his side. He gave her as long as she needed,
waiting for her to speak first. Eventually he heard her voice.
'I suppose we should take a closer look,' she almost whispered, as if she
didn't really want to say what she just had - afraid he would agree. He
answered with movement, carefully stepping into the clearing, scrutinizing the
forest floor in front of him before each next step, looking for the slightest
sign the ground could have been disturbed by someone other than the police who
initially attended the scene, trying to step inside the footmarks they'd
already left. Sally followed gingerly behind him. Once he was no more than
seven or eight feet away from the body he squatted as low as he could to the
ground and looked across at the face of the dead woman - short hazel hair
fallen over her temples and brow, eyes half-closed, mouth open with her tongue
sticking slightly out between her blue lips, gripped by her upper and lower
teeth. She was completely naked, the cuts and bruises on her body too numerous
to count, but even from this distance he could see the same telltale circular
marks the cattle prod had left on Karen Green - confirmation of what he already
knew: it was the same man.
'Is it her?' Sally asked sombrely, expecting only one answer.
Sean looked over his shoulder at her. 'It's her - Louise Russell. We're too
late. Nothing we can do now.'
She sensed the self-accusation in his voice. 'It's not your fault, Sean.'
'Yes it is,' he snapped back. 'I missed something. We're here because I missed
something.'
She knew there were no words that would change his mind. 'We should go,' she
said. 'There's nothing more we can do here other than mess up the crime scene.'
'Not yet,' he argued. 'I need to check something out first.'
'Roddis won't be happy,' she warned, still standing at the edge of the
clearing, not wanting to step inside the circle.
'It won't take long,' he assured her as he began to move towards Louise
Russell's lifeless body. The closer he got, the more the world around him
ceased to exist - the sounds of the birds and trees replaced by a thundering
humming in his mind, like the sound of rushing water. He tugged a pair of
rubber gloves over his hands and reached out for her head, gently gripping her
chin and forehead. The bruising and reddening around her neck and throat told
him she'd been strangled, but he needed to know what else had happened.
'What are you doing?' Sally whispered as loudly as she could, but her words
fell on deaf ears as Sean carefully tilted Louise Russell's head, the onset of
rigor-mortis making her muscles stiff and difficult to manoeuvre. Eventually he
was able to see the back of her skull. He held her head just above the ground
in one hand while the fingers of the other gently moved her hair aside, looking
for a wound - a wound like the one he'd found on Karen Green. But he could find
no sticky, hair-matted patch of blood. He laid her head back, exactly as he'd
found it, the rushing sound in his mind growing ever louder as he crouched,
staring into the earth at his feet.
Again Sally called from the edge of the clearing, louder this time. 'What is
it?' He didn't hear her. 'What is it?' she repeated. Sean looked up at her,
unspeaking, as if in a daze. 'Did you find something?'
'There's no head wound,' he said, sounding confused, 'and he's at least a day
early. He shouldn't have killed her yet.'
'What does that mean?'
'It means he's changing. His cycle is speeding up. But not just that, something
else too ...'
'Go on,' she encouraged him.
'When he killed Karen Green it was functional - it meant nothing - the actual
killing. Everything that went before the killing was intensely personal, but
when it came to her murder, it was a simple case of disposing of something that
had no value to him. He was more worried about self-preservation than the
experience of taking a life - that's why he all but killed her with a blow to
the head before he strangled her, or ... or at least that's what he told
himself. He was trying to convince himself that he wasn't killing for the
thrill of it, because that would have ... what? Affected his self-image? But
what image do you have of yourself? What do you think you are?'
He broke off the questions and pictures in his head. 'Fuck's sake,' he swore at
himself for not being able to solve the puzzle instantly, then continued: 'This
time there's no head wound ... because ... he wanted to feel her life drain
away. Not just what was left of it, but all of it.' He studied the position of
the body for a few seconds, then went on: 'He stood in front of her. She was
already kneeling on the ground because she'd tried to run away, but in her bare
feet, in the dark, she had no chance and she fell or he tripped her, so she was
on the floor when he came to her, standing above her, looking down into her
eyes. He took his time, reaching out towards her, his fingers sliding around
her neck, his thumbs pressing into her throat. She tried to fight, but he was
too strong and it felt so good - her struggling, her life ebbing away as he
held her tight, it felt good. Even after she was dead he kept hold of her,
looking down into her dead face, until eventually he released her and watched
her fall to the ground in exactly the same position she's in now. And then he
watched her some more. The cold night air must have felt so good and once
you've admitted to yourself that the killing feels good too, you're not going
to stop until you're stopped, are you? Not until I stop you.'
'Sean?' Sally called. 'Sean - who're you talking to?'
He turned his head quickly towards her, suddenly aware of what he must have
done. 'You,' he lied. 'I was talking to you.'
They stood in silence for a moment, then Sally spoke. 'I think we should go
now.'
'Just one more thing I need to check,' he promised.
'Fine. Do what you have to do and let's get out of here before forensics show
up.'
Still crouching next to the body, he looked over her torso at the arm that lay
partially concealed under her. He saw scratches and bruises, but nothing else.
'What are you looking for?' Sally asked nervously, desperate to get as far away
from the crime scene and body of Louise Russell as she could - to distance
herself from her own memories and thoughts of what she'd almost become - a
lifeless thing to be pored over and photographed before being removed to a
mortuary to be dissected in the search for evidence. Not a person any more,
just a case-file.
Sean ignored her as he reached for Louise Russell's other arm, the one that
hung behind her back. As gently as he could, he took hold of her wrist and
twisted it to reveal the underside of her forearm - the sight of the garish
phoenix making him feel dizzy, exhilarated and confused all at the same time.
He almost dropped her arm and toppled over, but managed to catch himself and
lower the arm back to its previous position before standing bolt upright, his
eyes never leaving the body.
'What?' Sally called, keeping her distance. 'What have you found?'
'The key,' he told her. 'The key to everything. Now I just need to find the
lock it fits.'
'I still don't understand,' she admitted as Sean walked back towards her,
pulling his phone from his coat pocket, searching for the number he knew would
be in his contacts. After a few rings he heard Donnelly's voice answer.
'Dave? Don't say anything, just listen. This is important and I don't have much
time. That transfer I asked Paulo to look into - the phoenix - did anything
come of it? Did he find anything?'
'Oh God - that useless thing. Yeah, he gave me a report about it. Last I
remember I put it on your desk, with the other information reports. I thought
you would have put that through the shredder by now. How you getting on at the
crime scene?'
'Listen,' said Sean, the tone of his voice pricking Donnelly's ears, 'Louise
Russell has the same transfer in the same place as the one we found on Karen
Green.'
Donnelly thought for a second. 'No way. It's not possible. The only way they
could have the same fake tattoo would be if ... oh Jesus Christ,' he blasphemed
as the reality of the situation dawned over him.
'And if he put the transfers on them, it must be important to him. Important
because she had a tattoo of a phoenix - the woman he's taking them to replace.
Either he got lucky and found a transfer that matched her tattoo - which I
doubt - or he had them made for him by some specialist company that produces
custom-made transfers. Had them made specifically because it made the women
seem more like her - like the one he's coveted for months if not years. Where
are you now?'
'I'm in the office.'
'Good. Go through my in-tray and find the report Zukov gave you - maybe it's
got the name of the company that made the transfers. They should be able to
tell us who they made them for.'
'This isn't possible.'
'Trust me,' Sean pleaded, 'it's possible. Now dig out the report and read what
it says to me.'
'No, no,' Donnelly replied, 'you don't understand. I've read Zukov's report.
The transfer on Karen Green was sixteen years old. They were mass-produced for
some cereal company who gave them away in packets of cornflakes or Rice
Krispies or fuck knows what.' Sean listened in stunned silence. 'That's why I
reckoned it was a dead end,' Donnelly explained. 'How the hell could a
sixteen-year-old transfer from a cornflake packet be relevant to our case? But
if you're telling me it is, then the man we're looking for has been keeping
those transfers for the last sixteen years.'
Sean stood wide-eyed, trembling with excitement and apprehension, terrified
that the answer to the puzzle would slip from his mind before he could ensnare
it and make it his permanent captive. 'Get in front of a CRIS machine,' he
ordered.
'One minute,' said Donnelly, striding to the nearest computer and logging into
CRIS. 'OK, I'm in. What next?'
'Run an inquiry for any allegations of harassment - female victim. The year I'm
looking for is 1996 and the age of the victim will be between ten and twelve.
D'you understand?' he asked, his heart pounding in his chest as his belief that
he was right, that he was close to finding the madman, grew within him.
'I'm with you,' Donnelly assured him as he punched the details into CRIS,
waiting for the relevant screens to roll past.
'The harassment would have been reported by the parents,' Sean continued.
After a few seconds Donnelly spoke: 'OK, I have seven reports of young girls
being harassed. What now?'
'Our man has no convictions, remember? Which means he probably wasn't charged,
meaning the parents just wanted us to warn him off. Does that match anything
you have?'
The silence on the other end of the phone told him it did.
'Victim's name is Samantha Shaw,' Donnelly said. 'Suspect's name is Thomas
Keller, who was also twelve at the time of the offence. His address is shown as
a children's home in Penge, so he won't be there any more.'
'No, but she might still live with her parents.'
'At the same address? It's unlikely,' Donnelly warned.
'Even if they've moved, we have enough details to locate them,' Sean reminded
him. 'See if you can't find an address for this Thomas Keller, and track down
the Shaws - we need to know where Samantha is now - right now.'
'No problem. And while I'm doing that, what will you be doing?'
'I'm going to meet our friendly supervisor from the sorting depot.'
'On a Sunday?' Donnelly queried.
'I have his mobile number, remember,' Sean reminded him. 'He'll meet me.
Deborah Thomson's still alive - I know she is. If necessary I'll give him no
choice. I won't let there be a third murder - no matter what.'
Superintendent Featherstone drove through the light mid-morning traffic towards
Peckham police station, having decided that location offered the best chance of
intercepting Sean and getting an update on the second body, as well as showing
his face to the rank and file. After that he might yet make it home for the
Sunday roast his wife was in the process of preparing. Anything else he was
fairly confident he could deal with over the phone, at least until the real
shit-storm got underway on Monday morning. Besides, Corrigan knew what he was
doing, even if he was a little unconventional.
The very phone he'd just been thinking of began to chirp and vibrate in the
centre console. He grabbed it with his non-steering hand and checked the caller
ID, but the number was withheld - never a good sign on a cop's mobile phone.
For a brief second he considered not answering, but decided he'd rather deal
with whatever the call brought than fret about who it might have been for the
rest of the morning.
'Hello,' he answered guardedly.
'Good morning, Alan,' said a voice he recognized. 'Assistant Commissioner Addis
here,' he added unnecessarily.
'Good morning, sir,' Featherstone forced himself to respond, inwardly cursing
himself for answering the damn phone.
'I hear your DI Corrigan has a second victim on his hands.'
'Bad news travels fast.'
'Like I told you, certain people have taken an interest in DI Corrigan. The
progress of any case he's involved in finds its way to my ears quicker than you
might imagine.'
'Indeed,' was Featherstone's only reply.
'And what of our mutual friend?' Addis continued. 'Has she submitted her report
to you yet, or informed you of any interesting observations she may have made?'
'No,' said Featherstone. 'Not yet.'
'Uhhm, I was thinking - on reflection, it's probably better if she reports to
me directly. There's no need to create unnecessary ... bureaucracy. Don't you
agree?'
'I understand.'
'Good. One last thing ...' Addis said. 'Does he suspect anything?'
'I don't think so.'
'Excellent,' said Addis. 'Make sure it stays that way.'
Featherstone heard the line go dead and found himself staring at his phone. For
a second he considered calling Sean and warning him to tread carefully, but he
knew he couldn't trust his own phone not to betray him, not now Addis and his
people were involved.
With a shrug of his shoulders he tossed the phone on to the passenger seat.
Maybe he'd still make it home in time for his Sunday roast.
Sean and Sally drew closer to the sorting office in South Norwood where they
had arranged to meet Leonard Trewsbury, the depot supervisor. They'd travelled
in almost complete silence, Sally driving while Sean spent most of his time
nervously cradling his phone, waiting for Donnelly to call back. It had rung
several times during the journey, making them both jump, but he'd answered only
once, when the caller ID showed it was DS Roddis from the forensic team. Sally
wondered who the other calls were from.
'Something bothering you?' she asked. 'Aside from the usual.'
'That CRIS search I had Dave run,' he told her. 'I did the same search myself,
several times, only I never thought about changing the dates of the offence by
more than a couple of years. If I'd only changed the dates, moved them back
further, then Louise Russell would be alive.'
'Fuck sake, Sean - how could you possibly have known to move the date back
sixteen years? How could anyone have known to do that?'
'I should have,' he snapped. 'As soon as I saw that tattoo, as soon as we
discovered it was only a transfer, I should have checked back further - much
further.'
'Hey, give yourself a break. We don't even know if this guy Thomas Keller has
got anything to do with these murders.'
'It's him,' Sean assured her. 'I know it's him. He's coveted her for sixteen
years - planned this for sixteen years - and now at last, finally he's making
it all come true. When we meet Trewsbury, he'll confirm that Keller works from
the Norwood sorting office and then there'll be no doubt he's our man. Then
this'll be over.'
'There's something else,' Sally probed. 'Something you're not telling me.'
'It's that name - Thomas Keller. I've heard it before somewhere, or dealt with
him in the past. Christ, I don't know, maybe I nicked him when I was still in
uniform or interviewed him someplace, sometime. Ever since Dave said his name
it's been driving me mad trying to remember - where have I heard that name?'
'You're knackered,' Sally reminded him. 'It's probably just deja-vu. By the
time your tired brain processes a new piece of information your memory has
already logged it, hence the information appears strangely familiar to you.
It's a case of the memory overtaking the conscious thought process.'
Sean looked at her with eyebrows raised. 'I know what deja-vu is.'
'Sorry,' she apologized. 'Of course you do.'
Sean's phone rang again. He checked the caller ID and answered. 'Dave. What
have you got for me?'
'First off, we drew a blank on Thomas Keller. No address, no intelligence, no
nothing. Anything created as a result of the sexual assault and subsequent
stalking has been deleted from our intelligence records a long time ago and it
appears he's kept himself clean since. The Shaws still live at the same
address, but Samantha flew the nest a few years back and now lives with her
boyfriend at 16 Sangley Road, Catford. I'll text you the address and her phone
number, unless you want me to call her?'
'No,' Sean insisted. 'No phone calls. I need to see her face to face. I have to
know how she feels about him.'
Donnelly didn't argue. 'Fair enough. Is there anything else you want me to do?'
'No,' Sean answered. 'Hold fire with the team until I get an address for
Keller. I'll call as soon as I have it.' He hung up.
'You're not going to call him are you?' Sally said. 'If we get an address for
Keller - you're not going to call anyone.'
Sean ignored her and pointed to the side of the road next to the sorting
office. 'Pull over here. That's our man.' He almost jumped out of the car while
it was still moving, desperate to quiz Leonard Trewsbury, desperate for
confirmation.
The two men had already shaken hands by the time Sally joined them. Sean didn't
bother introducing her. 'Thanks for meeting us,' he said.
'You didn't give me much choice, Inspector,' Trewsbury replied. 'Another young
woman found murdered - what could I say? I'll probably lose my job and most of
my pension too, but at least I'll be able to look myself in the mirror.'
'If there'd been any other way, I wouldn't have asked,' Sean assured him. 'I
had no alternative, not while there's still a chance to save another.'
'The third woman he took?' Trewsbury asked, his eyes narrowing.
'There's no reason to believe he'll treat her any differently,' Sean warned him.
'So what is it you want from me that you couldn't ask over the phone?'
'Thomas Keller - does that name mean anything to you?'
Trewsbury's lips went a strange shade of grey. 'Tommy, yeah, sure, he works
here, but he couldn't be involved in this - he wouldn't say boo to a goose.
He's a good kid, you know, hard worker, keeps himself to himself. He gets
hassled by the other guys sometimes, but never caused me no trouble.'
He was unaware he was describing exactly the sort of man Sean was looking for,
causing his heart to flutter as all his theories began to fall into place. How
the killer had been able to walk around residential areas without drawing
attention to himself, dressed in the urban camouflage of his Post Office
uniform, selecting his victims, intercepting their mail to learn about their
lives, tricking them into opening their front doors and snatching them from
their own homes - it was all coming true.
'I need his address,' he told Trewsbury without trying to justify why he
suspected Thomas Keller.
'I don't have it,' Trewsbury answered.
'I know. That's why I wanted to meet you here, so we can check the employment
records. You said it yourself, Leonard, two young women already murdered and
one missing, presumed alive - for the time being.'
'But Tommy ...' Trewsbury struggled. 'I don't suppose you have a Production
Order?'
'No,' said Sean. 'By the time I get one, it'll be too late for Deborah Thomson.
I'm sorry, Leonard, but it's him, I know it's him and I need his address now.'
14
Thomas Keller awoke from his nightmares shortly before 11 a.m., his clothes and
bedding soaked with sweat, his eyes instantly wide open and bloodshot. He
rolled out of bed as if he was escaping a torture rack and landed hard on the
floor, scrambling and crawling to the corner of the littered room, eyes darting
from side to side looking for danger - children from the home, colleagues from
work, the police. Finally he remembered where he was, in time and place, and
allowed his tensed body to relax, his shoulders falling away from his neck as
he slowly exhaled, the bright sunlight pouring through his improvised curtains
and making him blink repeatedly. He stayed sitting in the corner for almost
fifteen minutes, trying to fully orientate himself with the world around him, a
million confused messages and ideas swirling inside his head, each telling him
to do a different thing - kill the woman in his cellar and then himself. Kill
himself and spare the woman. Find his mother and kill her. Kill his mother and
run. Kill his work colleagues and himself. Go to the children's home and kill
everyone there - his old school, all the potential adoptive parents who'd
rejected him, everyone who'd ever rejected him - not accepted him. Kill as many
as he could - kill them all.
'No!' he screamed at himself, at the ugly thoughts taking over his mind - the
thoughts that reminded him of last night - how good it felt to squeeze the life
from the whore's neck. 'That was different,' he yelled. 'She betrayed me.'
He jumped to his feet and stumbled to the drawer where he kept his precious
letters, pulling it open and searching frantically through the bundles until he
found the one he was looking for - a thick roll of envelopes addressed to
Hannah O'Brien. Yanking the elastic band away, he let the letters fall over the
surface of the chest of drawers and began to spread them around so he could see
as many of them as possible at the same time. Without even realizing it, his
hand had slipped inside his tracksuit bottoms and gripped himself. Yes, he told
himself, the others had all been mistakes, but at last he'd found the real Sam.
He would rescue her and then she would save him from the ugly thoughts. It was
how it was meant to be. Once he'd rescued her, he'd pile the other letters into
one of the oil drums and burn them and with them all the ugly thoughts. But
what if she didn't understand what he'd had to do - the sacrifices he'd had to
make? No, no, he reassured himself - she'd understand, she wouldn't judge him -
she never had.
First, however, there was still one more mistake he had to deal with. He took
his hand away from the letters and headed slowly towards his bathroom.
Sally parked their car a good fifty metres from the address that Trewsbury had
illegally given them. If Keller was at home, they didn't want to spook him by
screeching up outside his front door. They climbed from the car and began to
walk along the neglected street of three-storey Victorian terraced houses, most
of which had been converted into flats. Sean was already beginning to suspect
that Keller had given the Post Office a false address or, more likely, had
moved and not bothered to tell them. He was a Post Office employee, so
discreetly having his mail re-directed wouldn't have been too difficult.
As they closed on the address Sally became increasingly concerned about their
course of action.
'Maybe we should get TSG to hit the address? Go in hard and shake him up,' she
suggested.
'No,' said Sean, assessing the house. Even if Keller was still here, it was
clear that Deborah Thomson would not be. 'Let's check it out first, see how the
land lies, then we can consider using the TSG.'
'Perhaps we should put him under surveillance,' suggested Sally, 'see if he
leads us to Deborah Thomson. If we grab him now he may never talk. He could
leave her to starve to death in some hole in the ground.'
'Time,' he reminded her, 'it's all about time we don't have. Karen Green
abducted - found dead seven days later. Louise Russell abducted - found dead
five days later.' He stopped and turned to face her. 'He's speeding up, Sally.
The interval between the abduction and the killing is shrinking. How many days
does Deborah Thomson have? Four? Three? Less?'
He started walking again, Sally trailing behind, almost breaking into a run to
keep up until they reached the three shallow steps that led to the front door
and a panel of doorbells mounted on the side of the door frame. Six bells meant
six separate flats. The peeling paint on the front door and lack of names next
to the intercom buttons told Sean the flats were probably occupied by the
transient - London's throngs of the unsettled and unwanted. He rang the only
buzzer that had a readable name beside it and waited. After a few seconds that
felt like minutes the intercom crackled and a voice leaked out of it.
'Yes?'
'Police,' Sean said into the machine as quietly as he could without sounding
like anything but a cop. 'Can I have a word?'
More silent seconds. 'What's it about?'
'Open the door and I'll tell you,' Sean promised.
'Hold on a minute. I'll come to the front door.' They waited, listening to the
sounds of doors opening and closing, locks being turned, shuffling footsteps
growing nearer and a chain being attached to the door before finally it opened
by four inches and the plump, pink face of a woman in her fifties peered
through the gap, her small crooked teeth revealing the brown stains of years of
cigarette smoking when she spoke.
'Yeah?' she asked them suspiciously in a thick South London accent. Sean
couldn't help but look her up and down, noting her ancient slippers and
cardigan, her wild grey hair and swollen limbs.
'DI Corrigan,' he announced, holding his warrant card out.
The woman looked to Sally, who realized she wasn't going to be satisfied with
seeing just one warrant card. She sighed, pulling hers from her coat pocket and
thrusting it towards the suspicious old woman who immediately looked back to
Sean.
'We need to find out if a certain person lives here. Can we come in?'
The woman's eyes darted between them before she finally relented - more time
wasted. 'I suppose so,' she muttered, releasing the chain and allowing Sean to
push the door fully open and step past her into the building. Sally followed
suit, closing the door behind her. The poky hallway felt very crowded with
three of them in it.
'Would you like a drink - a cup of tea or something?' The image of foul-tasting
tea served in a filthy cup flashed through Sean's mind.
'No, thanks, we're in a hurry.'
'It's no bother. I was about to put the kettle on.'
Sean talked over the top of her. 'Mrs ...?'
'Miss, actually. Miss Rose Vickery.'
'Miss Vickery, does--'
'But you can call me Rose.'
'Rose. Does the name Thomas Keller mean anything to you? Does anyone by that
name live in this house?'
'People come and go from here all the time,' she said. 'Nobody stays long,
except me. I've been here almost twenty years, back when you used to know your
neighbours. Ain't got a clue who lives here now - people coming and going all
hours, but I never see nobody - just keep meself to meself.'
'Do you rent your flat?'
'Yeah, of course I do. All the flats in here are rented by the same landlord -
Mr Williams.'
Sean was about to ask for Williams's telephone number when Sally interrupted.
'Guv'nor.' He turned and saw her holding a bundle of mail, most of which looked
like junk. She took a couple of letters from the pile and handed them to him.
He read the name - Thomas Keller, Flat 4, 184 Ravenscroft Road, Penge. Sean
passed the letters to Rose.
'This is 184 Ravenscroft Road, right?'
'Yes.' She sounded nervous.
'And this is the name of the man I just asked you about - Thomas Keller.'
'Yes, but I don't read other people's mail,' she protested. 'Besides, there's
mail still comes here for people who are long gone.'
'Come on,' said Sean. 'You must see the names on the letters, when you're
searching for your own mail?'
'What you trying to say?'
'I'm saying you know who lives here and who doesn't. So you need to tell me,
does Thomas Keller live in flat 4? Now!' he demanded, raising his voice and
making Rose flinch.
'I don't know,' she insisted, pulling her cardigan tightly around herself.
Sean thought for a second. 'He's a postman. Maybe you remember seeing him in
his Post Office uniform.'
'Oh,' Rose declared, almost smiling with relief, 'him. The postie, yeah, he
used to live here, but he don't no more - ain't lived here for a few years. He
pops back every now and then to pick up his mail. I suppose he kept his key for
the front door - most of the old residents do, you know. I saw him a few weeks
ago, actually. I remember it because I said to him, you'd think he'd be able to
get his mail sent to the right address, seeing how he's a postie and all.'
Sean and Sally looked at each other - they needed to go.
'I don't suppose you have a forwarding address for him?' Sean asked, more in
blind hope than anticipation.
'No, love,' Rose answered.
'What now?' said Sally.
Sean stared down at the letter in his hand and jabbed at the name. 'I know this
name,' he said, 'but how and where?' He shook his head as if clearing it of a
foolish idea. 'Samantha Shaw,' he finally said. 'We need to see her, maybe she
knows where he lives.'
'Shall I tell him you're looking for him?' said Rose. 'You know, the postie. If
I see him, shall I tell him to get in touch?'
'No,' Sean told her. 'Don't worry about it, Rose. I'll be seeing him soon
enough.'
Anna had been at Peckham when she'd received the phone call summoning her to
New Scotland Yard, but no one had noticed her slip away. The light Sunday
traffic made the journey from one side of the Thames to the other reasonably
short and the pavements around New Scotland Yard that were usually swarming
with human traffic were deserted. She passed the armed guards clutching their
sub-machine guns overtly in a manner that would have been unthinkable on the
streets of London little more than a decade ago, flashing her security pass to
the private guards manning the metal detectors just inside the entrance and
then walking along the long corridor to the back of the building where the main
lifts were. She ascended to the penultimate floor where she knew Assistant
Chief Constable Robert Addis, Serious and Organized Crime Directorate, awaited.
She entered the reception area expecting to see the ever-present secretary who
guarded Addis's office like a rabid Rottweiler sitting at her desk, scowling at
anyone who dared request an audience with the deity next door. But the
reception was empty. As she walked deeper into the room she could hear the
faint shuffling of paper coming from the adjoining office and began to move
slowly towards it, the sudden sound of a man's voice, loud and bold, making her
jump.
'Anna - glad you could make it. Come in and sit down.'
She took a seat on the other side of the large wooden desk to the smiling
Addis, who sat with his hands together as if praying. 'How did you know it was
me?' she asked. 'You must get a lot of visitors.'
'Not on a Sunday,' he said. 'Even the great police of the metropolis slow down
on the Sabbath. If I was ever going to commit a serious crime I'd commit it on
a Sunday.'
'I didn't know assistant commissioners were expected to work on Sundays,' Anna
continued. 'Aren't you supposed to be at home with your family?'
'My family understand,' Addis assured her, the smile falling from his lips.
'Besides, I'm not expected to work on Sundays - I prefer to. I've always found
it an excellent day to deal with some of the ... shall we say, more sensitive
policing matters, when there aren't so many people around who could accidently
overhear something they weren't supposed to.'
'Like your secretary?'
The smile jumped back on to Addis's face. 'Did you bring it? The report?'
'I have it,' she confirmed. 'It's as complete as it can be, given the time and
circumstances it was prepared under and taking into account the non-cooperation
of the subject.'
'But it's informative - yes?'
'I believe so, but I'm having some serious concerns about possible client
confidentiality. This doesn't feel entirely ethically correct.'
'Client confidentiality?' Addis mused, his praying fingers tapping against each
other. 'But my dear Anna, I am the client, remember? I hired you to prepare a
psychological profile and in exchange you were given access to areas and
information others in your trade could only dream about. A mutually beneficial
arrangement - I'm sure you'll agree.'
'But what about his basic human rights - freedom of information and his right
to know?'
'Anna, Anna, Anna - he's a police officer. I'm afraid such niceties don't
always apply to us. Freedom of information, the right to strike, health and
safety, restriction on working hours - these are not things that are vouchsafed
to us. If they were, we'd never get a damn thing done now, would we? So, the
report, if you don't mind.'
Anna sighed and fished in her briefcase, pulling out a file the size of a
fashion magazine that she passed across the desk to the serious-faced Addis.
'It's all in there,' she said. 'Everything I could discover, anyway.'
'Good,' Addis replied, finding the temptation to run his fingers over the file
too much to resist. 'And he suspects nothing?'
'I don't think so, but I can't be sure. He's clearly of a high intellect. I
tried to interview him a couple of times, but he saw me coming and clammed up.
Most of my findings were through straight observation and speaking to his
colleagues.'
'And what did that tell you?'
'It's all in the report.'
'I'm sure it is, but perhaps you could give me a verbal summary to be going on
with?'
'Very well. As I've said, he's intelligent, highly observant and determined. I
wouldn't call him a natural leader, but his subordinates seem to follow him
willingly. They clearly believe in him. He's anchored by his wife and children.
He may not spend much time with them, but they're enormously important to him
and his ability to deal with what he has to deal with. Just knowing they're
there is crucial to him - even if he doesn't always know it himself. He
possesses an extraordinary ability to combine his imagination and experience,
and this enables him to visualize past events.'
'What does that mean, exactly?'
'It means he can recreate events that have occurred at the crime scenes he
attends. In his mind he can see what happened there.'
'Is he psychic?'
'No - and personally I don't believe anyone is. He simply has a highly
developed sense of projected imagination. It's probably not as uncommon as you
may think in police officers - especially detectives. If you see something
enough times and then later solve the riddle of how it came to be, then
eventually you'll start to see crime scenes differently. You'll start to see
what happened there even before the evidence or witness testimony explains it.'
'And that's all he's doing?' Addis asked. 'Combining experience with
imagination?'
'Largely.'
'But not entirely?'
'No. Not entirely.'
'So there's something else? Something that enables him to have these ...
insights?'
'I believe so. Is there anything in his past, some event in his service history
that may have caused him psychiatric problems? Something that may have left him
suffering from post-traumatic stress?'
Addis shook his head. 'No. A few minor injuries and some close scrapes, but
nothing particularly unusual.'
'His service history shows he infiltrated a paedophile ring while working
undercover. Things appear to have got a little out of hand during the
operation. Could that have affected him?'
'I'm familiar with that operation,' Addis assured her. 'Corrigan was returned
to normal duties without the need for any special ... arrangements.'
'Really?' Anna quizzed. 'Only, I noticed the report said the officer in charge
of the undercover side of the operation, DS Chopra, had sufficiently serious
doubts about DI Corrigan's psychological welfare during the operation that he
considered terminating it?'
'An overreaction,' Addis answered. 'The operation was successfully concluded
and Corrigan did his job. So, something else then? In his past perhaps? Before
he joined the service?'
'It's possible,' she admitted. 'But if there is anything of that nature he's
buried it so deeply I couldn't find what it is. I can only guess.'
'And what's your guess?'
'It's in the report - better to read it in full.'
'Very well,' Addis agreed. 'I shall look forward to it.'
Since she'd watched Louise Russell being dragged from the cellar hours ago
Deborah Thomson had been unable to do anything other than stare through the
thin grey light at the cage he used to keep her in, its door hanging open as if
to torment her. She'd prayed to hear the cellar door wrenched open, to hear
their voices descending towards her and watch as he imprisoned Louise in her
wire crate once more - anything rather than being all alone in the bleakest of
dungeons. But in her gut she could feel the truth - that Louise was never
coming back, never coming back to anyone.
She'd cried for so long, abandoned in the virtual darkness, that she couldn't
cry any more. Dehydration had dried her tear ducts and made her skin thin and
vulnerable. She couldn't remember the last drink she'd had and her mouth and
throat burned with thirst as her gums began to shrink back over her teeth.
Another day or two without water and they'd start to split and bleed while her
non-essential organs would begin to slow down and eventually cease functioning
as her body sent what little moisture there would be to the most vital organs -
the brain, heart, lungs and liver. She chastised herself for having wasted so
much valuable water on self-indulgent tears - water that had long since fallen
on the stony ground and dried away. What would her brothers have thought if
they'd seen her feeling sorry for herself, huddled in a corner crying like a
baby when she should have been planning her escape - the next attack on the
bastard who'd brought her here? They would have been ashamed of her - their
tough little sister, scared of some loser-freak. Next time she had a chance
she'd make it count, even with her broken kneecap. She'd almost got the better
of him the first time. If it hadn't been for an unlucky slip on the stairs,
she'd have been off.
Deborah vowed not to make the same mistakes again. Next time, instead of being
in a rush to get away she'd stand her ground and beat the living shit out of
him - make sure he was totally incapacitated before getting out of the cellar
and finding help. Or maybe she'd just call her brothers and tell them what the
bastard had done to her. They'd see to it that he paid. No need for police to
be involved - no interviews and court appearances. Her brothers would make him
suffer - suffer like he'd made her suffer. And once she decided he'd had
enough, they'd take him somewhere he'd never be found and bury him alive in a
six-foot hole and that would be the end of the bastard.
Her fantasy of revenge and punishment made her feel temporarily brave, but the
clang of the padlock on the cellar door being tampered with brought the terror
flooding back, vanquishing all thoughts of her brothers and escape. For a brief
moment she imagined it could be someone other than him fumbling at the lock,
the excitement of the possibility rushing through her, almost making her cry
out for help, but the lack of voices warned her to stay silent. A few seconds
later she heard the dreaded sound of the metal door being dragged open,
followed by the slow, steady tread of his feet on the stairs. She continued to
stare at the empty cage opposite her own. She was alone now. He couldn't be
coming to see anyone else. Louise was gone. He was coming for her.
Sally pulled the car to the side of the quiet, tidy street in Catford. The
small, newly built houses were arranged at strange angles to each other in an
effort to give the occupiers some feeling of privacy. Sean climbed out of the
car without speaking, moving as if he was somehow hypnotized by 16 Sangley Road
- its new brown bricks and white PVC windows with a small garage to match - the
front door hidden from passers-by. Sally appeared at his shoulder.
'Looks familiar,' she said, but he didn't answer as he drifted towards the
front door, his head thumping with possibilities. He was about to meet for the
first time the woman who was a goddess to the man he hunted, but couldn't help
but feel he'd already met her twice - yet never while she was still alive. As
he walked along the short driveway he experienced the same disorientating sense
of deja-vu - the same sense of the killer's presence he'd had at the other
scenes, and knew he'd been here and why.
He rang the doorbell, stepped back and waited, sensing movement inside -
hearing muffled voices. After a couple of minutes a face warped by the thick
glass of the door approached, moving quickly and confidently, not like someone
who was living in fear of being stalked. The door was pulled open without
caution and a young woman with short brown hair smiled at them, her green eyes
shining with life.
'Hi,' she greeted them without a care in the world - it was Sunday and the sun
was beginning to poke through the low cloud. Her hair was still wet from the
shower and strands were sticking to her temples and brow. Sean remembered
gently brushing the hair away from Karen Green's face when he'd been alone with
her in the woods. He hadn't expected to be so vividly reminded of the women,
now dead, that the killer had taken to replace the one standing in front of
him. 'Is there something I can help you with?' Sam prompted him, her smile
fading a little.
He suddenly remembered why he was there and pulled his warrant card free,
flipping it open for her to see. 'Samantha Shaw?' he asked.
'Yes. That's me. Is something wrong?' The smile disappeared from her face.
Sean ignored her concern, her obvious fear they were there to deliver bad news
about someone she loved. 'I'm DI Corrigan and this is DS Jones. It's about
Thomas Keller,' he told her. 'I need to find him. Do you know where he lives?'
She looked over her shoulder before answering. 'Tommy? This is about Tommy?'
'Yes,' he answered. 'Do you know where he lives?'
'Why would you ask me that? I haven't seen Tommy since we were kids. Not since
...'
'We know about what happened back then,' he assured her. 'And we know he was
harassing you--'
She cut across him. 'No - watching me, but not harassing me. My parents
reported it, not me.'
'You sound as though you still have a lot of affection for him,' Sean almost
accused her.
'Tommy's childhood was hell. I felt sorry for him - thought I could help him,
that's all. I didn't want to make things worse for him, even after ...'
'Can we come in and talk about it?' Sally asked.
'No, I don't think so,' she said. 'Ian doesn't know anything about it and I'd
like to keep it that way.'
'Have you seen Thomas Keller since?' Sean persisted. 'Since the assault and the
harassment?'
'No,' she replied, and he believed her. 'They took him out of my school and
last I heard he was still in the children's home. But I never saw him again and
quite frankly, until now, I'd pretty much forgotten about him - which is
exactly how I want it to be. Tommy's not my problem any more.'
'After what happened to you, when you were still a child - you're telling me
you forgot all about it, about him?'
'Yes.' She was a bad liar, but Sean decided to let it go. 'The only thing I
heard was from an old school friend I bumped into a few years ago. They said
they'd seen Tommy and that he was a postman now. I was happy for him, you know.
I thought maybe things had turned out all right for him, despite everything.
I'm sorry, but there's nothing else I can tell you.'
'I understand,' Sean said, eager to move the questioning on. 'Just one more
thing. Have you had any break-ins in the last few months or maybe even longer
ago? Anything unusual gone missing?'
She looked truly concerned for the first time since she'd opened the door. 'Is
Tommy in trouble? Did he do something? Is that why you're here?'
'My question,' he reminded her.
'No,' she snapped. 'I haven't had any break-ins and nothing's gone missing.'
'I need you to think really hard,' he insisted. 'Not necessarily an obvious
burglary - maybe just small items that have gone missing?' He saw a flicker of
something in her eyes. 'You can't go on protecting him, Samantha. You're not
twelve any more, and neither is he. He's dangerous now - more dangerous than
you can imagine. I need you to answer my questions.'
She sighed and shook her head. 'OK. A few months ago I'd just had a bath and
was in my bedroom. I went to use my body cream, but it wasn't where I always
left it, on my dressing table. I looked everywhere, but couldn't find it. I
asked Ian if he'd moved it and he said no. We'd just taken on a cleaner,
because we both work, and I guess I thought she might have taken it.'
'Did anything else go missing?'
'A few silly things - a bottle of perfume.'
'Black Orchid. And the body cream was from Elemis, wasn't it?'
She gawped at him, mouth hanging open, eyes clouding with suspicion. 'How did
you know? How could you possibly know that?'
'Lucky guess,' said Sean. 'You said other things went missing too. What things?'
'Some of my clothes: a skirt, blouse and a sweater, I think. But you know how
it is, things go missing all the time, lost at the dry cleaner's, left at work.
It happens to us all.'
Clothes. Of course, he thought, berating himself for having not seen it
earlier. He dressed them in her clothes - that's why the bodies had been naked
or nearly so, because he was recycling her clothes, using them on victim after
victim, taking them from one to give to the next as his belief that they were
the real Samantha Shaw faded and died.
'Did you report it to the police?'
'Are you kidding? They would have thought I was mental.'
'But did you think it could be Tommy? In your heart, did you think it could be
him? Did you see him in your mind coming into your house, your bedroom, and
taking the perfume - the cream?'
'I ... I don't know what you're talking about,' she faltered.
'Yes you do,' he said. 'But burying the past mattered more to you than telling
anyone the thing you feared - feared more than anything else.'
'And what would that be?' she asked calmly.
'That he was back,' said Sean. 'That after all these years, Thomas Keller was
back.'
'You don't know anything about my fears,' she warned him, still icy calm.
'I know more than you think.'
Sally had seen Sean in many guises, but this was a new one, even for her. 'This
isn't getting us any closer to Keller,' she said. 'If you have no idea where he
is, then you can't help us any further. Thanks for your time. We'll be in
touch.'
She turned to look at Sean, as if willing him to walk away, but he stood
rooted, eyes locked with Samantha Shaw's, convinced there was more information
she could give, even if she didn't know it herself. He let his eyes alone ask
all the questions, until eventually she answered.
'Listen, the only other thing I can think of is that Tommy always talked about
getting himself a farm when he grew up. That's all I can tell you.'
Sean suddenly looked at the ground, his hand rising towards her face, fingers
spread wide like a net, as if he was trying to catch her words before they
escaped and were lost for ever. 'What did you just say?' he demanded.
'I said Tommy wanted to live on a farm. I suppose he wanted to be away from
people ...' She was still talking when he turned from her, not listening any
more, walking away tugging his phone from his pocket and searching for
Donnelly's number. It was answered within a few ring tones.
'Guv'nor.'
'Are you still in the office?'
'Aye.'
'Thomas Keller. I remember where I've seen his name,' Sean told him. 'It was on
an information report. A uniform patrol checked out a farm - the man living
there gave his name as Thomas Keller.'
'You sure?' Donnelly asked. 'We must have checked out more than a hundred
smallholdings, not to mention the hundreds of other information reports with
name after name on them.'
'Samantha Shaw just told me that Keller always wanted to live on a farm. As
soon as she said it, I remembered - remembered seeing it. But I can't remember
the address. The report should still be in my office. I need you to search for
it - go through every last scrap of paper till you find it.'
'Fuck me, guv'nor - have you seen your office? That could take days.'
'No,' Sean insisted. 'The information reports from property searches are in a
separate pile, as are the ones from door-to-door, as are the ones from
roadblocks, as are they all. The pile you're looking for will be smaller than
the others. I'll stay on the line while you check.'
Donnelly eased himself out of his chair and headed to Sean's office. 'On my way
- hold on.' He scanned the stacks of reports until he found the pile he was
looking for. 'Here we go,' he said, sitting at the desk in front of the
reports. He puffed out his cheeks and began to scan through them, checking the
names while Sean waited silently, his hands shaking with anticipation,
listening to Donnelly discounting each useless report. 'No.' A few seconds
later. 'No.' More seconds later. 'No,' until finally Donnelly's tone changed
completely. 'Fuck me,' he declared. 'How the hell did you remember seeing that?'
Sean didn't have to ask if Donnelly had found it. 'What's the address?'
'It's in Keston, Kent, off Shire Lane in what appears to be a disused poultry
farm. He showed the uniform patrol his driving licence as ID, which by all
accounts checked out. Do you want me to scramble TSG, or maybe a surveillance
team - make sure he's holding Deborah Thomson at the same place?'
'No,' Sean insisted. 'For all we know it could be another part-time address.
I'll check it out first - quietly. Once I know he's there, I'll call you - then
we'll think about the TSG.'
Donnelly didn't believe a word of it. 'OK, guv'nor. If that's how you want to
play it.'
'It is,' said Sean, and hung up. He sensed Sally by his side. 'We've got his
address.'
'How?'
'I'll explain on the way,' he promised and strode towards their car.
'On the way to where?'
'Where d'you think?' he asked, oblivious to her fears. 'To Keller's home
address, of course.'
'Just the two of us? Shouldn't we wait for the TSG or at least have some of the
team meet us there? We know he has access to electrical weapons and he lives on
a farm - God knows what else he's got down there.'
'Don't worry,' he assured her, 'we're not going to arrest him. We're checking
out the address, that's all.'
She watched him duck inside the car, leaving her with a sickness deep in the
pit of her stomach - a feeling of dread that he was leading her towards places
in her own soul and consciousness she wasn't ready to go to yet. But she could
see he had the taste for the hunt and his quarry was close. Like an
out-of-control freight train, nothing could stop him now.
The pain had been almost as unbearable as the humiliation - his stinking, sweet
breath panting in her ear, her body too racked with exhaustion and pain to
resist after he'd stabbed her with the cattle prod again and again until she'd
finally succumbed. At last her torture was over and he crawled from the cage,
dragging her filthy mattress with him and all of her clothes except her
underwear. She reached down and pulled her knickers up as best she could with
one hand, sobbing a tearless cry - his voice behind her, out of breath and
merciless.
'That's what you wanted, wasn't it, you little whore? Feel better now, don't
you? You fucking whore - you disgust me.' He slammed the cage door shut and
locked it with the padlock, gathering up the mattress and clothes. 'I need to
have a shower,' he told her. 'I need to wash your filth off my body. The smell
of your cunt makes me feel sick.' He headed for the stairs, stopping and
looking back at her lying on the cold stone floor. 'I thought you were
different to the others,' he said through gritted teeth. 'I thought you were
her, but you're not. You lied to me - you tricked me. You'll fucking pay for
trying to make me look like a fool. You'll all pay.'
With that he tugged the cord, turning off the electric bulb, and slowly climbed
the stairs walking through the streams of sunlight that flooded into the
cellar, his body cutting a silhouette into the light.
'Don't get too close,' Sean warned Sally as they drove along Shire Lane towards
the outcrop of buildings they could see one hundred metres ahead. 'I don't want
to spook him. Pull over here.' Sally let the car roll silently to a standstill
at the side of the dirt road, the surrounding trees and hedges camouflaging
them well enough. 'We'll walk from this point,' he said, 'follow the treeline
and double back around on ourselves. That'll bring us right on top of the place
- we'll be able to see anything moving.'
'I don't think this is a good idea,' Sally argued. 'We should wait for
assistance, or better still let someone else take him out. Once we know he's
secured we can search the place safely.'
'No,' he insisted. 'I want some time alone with him first.'
'You'll have time with him when you interview him. You can ask him anything you
want.'
'What, when he's surrounded by solicitors, appropriate adults and the Mental
Health team? I can't talk to him then - not properly. I need to be alone with
him.'
'I don't under--'
'I have to know why. Why he did it.'
'You already know,' Sally argued. 'You know more about why he's doing it than
he probably knows himself.'
'No, I don't.' Sean was adamant. 'I can get close, but I can't think like him.
Not all the way. I need to know how he thinks.'
'But what does it matt--'
'For Christ's sake, Sally, don't you understand? It matters for the next time
and the time after that and the time after that. I need to know what makes them
feel alive - what they'll do to feel alive - to feel something.'
'What makes them feel alive?' she queried. 'Them, Sean?'
'Come on, let's go,' he snapped, opening his door and trying to escape. Strong
fingers around his forearm stopped him.
'I'm scared, Sean,' she admitted. 'You think I'm ready for this, but I'm not.
I'm scared of how I'll react if we find him - if we find Deborah Thomson. I
don't know what's going to happen to me. And I'm scared for you, Sean. I'm
scared what you might do.'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
'When Donnelly found you with Lawlor, on the railway bank, he told me Lawlor
said you were trying to kill him.'
Sean froze, icy fingers stretching into his mind and wrapping themselves around
hundreds of dark memories he tried so hard to conceal from himself as much as
anyone else. He said nothing, eyes unblinking and staring into Sally's.
'Well, Sean, is it true? Were you?'
He managed to shake his head and even fake a slight smile. 'Someone's talking
shit,' he lied. 'Canteen chatter, that's all.'
'Are you sure about that? Because, if there's more to it, then maybe you should
think about taking a break from ... from this - the madmen and the carnage, the
sadness they leave behind that only we and families of their victims see. If
something happened out there, maybe you should step away.'
'Look,' he tried to reassure her, 'Lawlor is scum. He pissed me off and I
wanted to scare the shit out of him - that's all, I promise.' She watched him
for a while, reading him as she had a thousand suspects before - judging him.
'Come on, Sally,' he said. 'I need you to do this with me. All we're going to
do is follow the treeline until we can see the buildings better - then we watch
and wait. No more, I promise.'
In the end she agreed, even though she knew he would never be able to just
watch and wait, not with his prey so close. She released his forearm and they
climbed from the car together, easing the doors shut. Sally followed Sean,
occasionally shaking her head in disbelief at what she was doing and where she
was. When Sean found a natural break in the trees they headed deeper into the
woods that surrounded the ramshackle collection of ugly buildings until they
came to a low wooden fence that formed a perimeter. Like the buildings below it
had been neglected and was rotting in several places. The panels would be easy
to pry away from the holding frames. On the other side there was another line
of trees, but smaller and younger than those in the woods behind them. Beyond
was a grassy bank leading to the buildings, which were arranged in a circular
valley. Sean prised one of the panels away and peered down. He saw nothing
moving, but his view was partially restricted. He looked through the gap to his
right and saw a better position to spy from.
'We need to keep moving,' he told Sally. 'About fifty metres further round
there's a better place. We can watch from there - anything moves, we'll see it.'
'OK,' Sally whispered. 'Lead the way.'
He nodded once and headed off. The sharp fallen branches breaking under his
feet and the whip-like limbs of the saplings reaching out for his face made him
think of the madman's victims being marched barefoot into the woods in the
middle of the night, their feet cut to ribbons, their soft skin scratched and
slashed at. And always the faceless, hooded man walking behind them, protected
from the elements and the fury of the woods by his shapeless clothing. Soon the
madman would have a face and Sean would be staring straight into it. He felt a
surge of excitement and adrenalin surge through his body. It was all he could
do not to smash through the wooden fence, charge down the grassy hill and flush
out Thomas Keller - the hunter becoming the hunted as he finally cornered him
and then ...
He reached a place he guessed would be near enough the vantage point and began
to ease another panel from the frame, the rusty nails pulling free from the
damp wood easily. He propped the panel against the fence and looked through, a
satisfied smile spreading across his face as he realized he'd stopped at almost
exactly the place he'd intended to, the buildings below being no more than
forty metres away and washed in spring sunshine. He could see pretty much
everything.
'Take a look,' he whispered, moving aside to let Sally peer through. She took a
quick glance then handed the vigil back to him. 'This is our man,' he added,
never taking his eyes off his quarry. 'This place is perfect for him - the
woods, the isolation. He keeps them here too - close at hand for when he needs
...' Just in time he remembered Sally was standing next to him ... 'to go to
them. He doesn't want to keep them miles away, having to get into his car and
drive to see them - he covets his collection too much. He needs to be able to
see them instantly, as soon as he wants to.'
'His collection?' Sally queried.
He was about to answer until a movement caught his eyes, a change in the
shadows of an open door leading into a small brick building.
'Someone's moving,' he whispered. As he looked on, the shadow in the doorway
stepped into the light and turned into a man. 'He's carrying something ...'
'What?' Sally managed to ask, her heart pounding, wanting to be anywhere but
there.
'... a mattress and ... and clothes - some sort of clothing. Here,' he said,
his excitement matching her anxiety.
Sally took a peep. 'Looks like an outside toilet to me.'
Sean peered back through the gap in time to see the man place the items on the
ground and lock the door with a padlock before recovering the clothing and
mattress and heading off across the forecourt towards a dilapidated bungalow he
guessed was his living quarters. 'That's no outside toilet,' he said. 'You
don't padlock an outside toilet. And the mattress and the clothes - it must be
the entrance to an old bomb shelter or cellar.' He filled his lungs and pushed
himself away from the fence. 'He keeps them in there,' he told himself as much
as Sally. 'Deborah Thomson's down there.'
'Are you sure it's him?' Sally asked. 'Thomas Keller?'
Sean pulled up the image in his mind: the employee photograph of Thomas Keller
that Leonard Trewsbury had shown him little more than an hour ago. 'Hard to
tell - he's older now and we're too far away. But yes, I think it's him.'
'Fine,' said Sally. 'Let's call in back-up and take him down.' Her head was
beginning to pound as the sickness in her stomach started to spread to the rest
of her body. She wanted to run - run back to the car and drive away, keep
driving and leave the madmen to it.
'OK ...' Sean appeared to relent, but immediately went on to confirm her worst
fears: 'You sort out the back-up and wait here until it arrives. I'm going to
fetch the car and drive up to the front of his house. Keep watch and cover my
back. If the shit hits the fan, stay put and wait for back-up. Call for urgent
assistance if you have to - but only if you have to.'
'This is a really bad idea,' she warned him.
'I'll be fine,' he assured her. 'I've got my ASP and CS spray. If he tries to
get the jump on me, I'll give him a full canister in the face.'
'Why are you doing this?'
'You know why,' he answered. 'Because I have to. I have to fill in the blanks.'
Sally nodded. She didn't like it, but she understood. He was the animal that he
was and no one could change him.
'Here--' he handed her a standard-issue radio. 'Take this. You'll need it more
than I will.'
She slowly took it from him as if it was some precious parting gift, handing
him the keys to the car in exchange. He began to walk away.
'Wait,' she stopped him. 'How will I know you're OK?'
'I told you, I'll be fine. I'm going to keep him talking until the troops
arrive. As soon as they do, just come charging in.'
'But what if this isn't where he's keeping Deborah Thomson?'
'It is,' he insisted. 'Trust me.'
Determined not to give her another chance to stop him, he strode into the
woods, moving quickly and quietly, becoming more accustomed to his rural
surroundings, more comfortable amongst the trees - just like the man he hunted.
He reached the car and climbed in, fumbling with the keys as his hands shook
with anticipation of what was soon to come. Finally he got the car started and
headed slowly towards the farm and Thomas Keller, swallowing drily, his mouth
parched and sticky. He pulled the CS spray from its leather holster on his belt
and slid it into his right-hand coat pocket where it would be easier to reach
in a desperate moment. The car passed through the tumble-down gates and rolled
to a gentle halt in front of the breezeblock bungalow.
Sean took a moment to compose himself before getting out of the car. The
realization that he'd reached the end of the deadly game brought a sudden peace
and calmness to him. It was over - almost. Gently closing the car door behind
him, he spent a few seconds looking around, vivid images of Karen Green and
Louise Russell being marched from the cellar before being driven away to their
deaths played in his mind, but nevertheless he remained icy calm. Images of
Thomas Keller heading towards the cellar armed with his cattle prod and
alfentanil, intent on the rape and murder of innocent women, followed, but
still Sean remained calm. When he was ready, he walked purposefully to what
appeared to be the front door, his warrant card already in the palm of his left
hand while his right rested on the CS canister in his coat pocket. There was no
doorbell, just a thin door with a plain sheet of glass covering the top
quarter. He tapped gently on the window and called into the house. 'Hello. Is
anyone home? It's the police.' He stood back from the door and watched through
the glass, listening for sounds of life, imagining the jolt of panic his voice
must have delivered to the man he knew was lurking somewhere inside. Imagining
Keller breaking out in a cold sweat of terror, he savoured his own moment of
cruelty before stepping forward and tapping on the glass again. 'Hello.
Police.' This time he stayed close to the door, pretending to be looking away,
in case he was being watched, using his peripheral vision to look through the
window. He saw a shape dart across a doorway inside, on the other side of what
looked to be the kitchen. 'Come on, you son-of-a-bitch,' he whispered to
himself. 'Open the fucking door and let me see your face.'
It was unfortunate the front door appeared to lead directly into the kitchen,
where knives and heavy metal objects would be easily to hand. He covertly
checked his ASP was still attached to his belt. If it came to a close-quarter
battle, the CS spray would be no good - it would blind them both. Better to go
with the ASP. Again the shape inside darted across the doorway opposite. 'Fuck
this,' he said, almost too loudly, and reached out for the door handle. He
rested his hand on the faded chrome and slowly pressed down on it, wary of a
possible booby trap. As the handle depressed further he heard the click of the
door opening. Clearly Keller hadn't been expecting company and had left the
door unlocked.
Sean remembered the clothes he'd been carrying and imagined what Keller had
been doing when he'd first heard the knock at his door - holding the clothes
against his naked skin, rubbing their scent all over himself, especially his
private parts, lying on the soiled mattress and drinking in the smell of his
victims, relishing their fear and his power over them. Sean wondered whether
Keller had pissed himself when he heard the knock at his door.
He pushed the door and let it swing open, intently surveying the room for
anything that could be used as a weapon or a hiding place, listening for the
sound of a pit-bull that had been trained to lie silently in wait for an
unsuspecting trespasser to enter its domain. As satisfied as he could be that
there were no immediate hidden dangers, he stepped inside. He felt powerful and
dangerous intruding into Keller's sanctuary - doing to Keller what he had done
to women he'd taken - invading his home, his most sacred place, and shattering
all his faint illusions.
'Thomas Keller,' he called out. 'My name is DI Sean Corrigan. I need to speak
to you, Thomas. You're not in any trouble - I just want a word with you. I'm
doing a follow-up visit - two of my uniformed colleagues came to see you a
couple of days ago. They thought you might be able to help me with a certain
matter I'm looking into.'
Suddenly he was there - the madman, Thomas Keller - standing in the doorway
he'd been ghosting past seconds earlier, those same burning brown eyes Sean had
seen in the Post Office ID photograph, their intensity not even slightly
diminished by the passing of the years since the picture was taken. Sean could
see Keller's chest rising and falling with the exertion of whatever he'd been
doing before his arrival. The effort of trying to appear unconcerned that a
policeman was standing in his kitchen was only adding to his strain. He watched
Keller's tongue curl from his mouth like a cat's and lick the beads of sweat
from his upper lip.
Sean faked a smile. 'Hi. The door was unlocked so I let myself in,' he told the
madman. 'I was worried something might have happened to you. You don't mind, do
you?'
'No,' Keller stabbed his answer, using the back of his sleeve to wipe the sweat
from his brow.
'Are you OK?' he asked, enjoying the torture, knowing Keller was anything but
OK, knowing that he would be dying inside. He saw Keller's legs momentarily
twitch, as if he was about to sprint away, and realized he was moving too fast.
He wanted to speak to Keller, not end up chasing him across ground the madman
would know better than him - into the woods where he felt so comfortable and
empowered. No, he needed to keep him here, in the confined space he himself was
already growing accustomed to.
He pulled an old wooden chair from under the littered kitchen table and slowly
sat down, his eyes never leaving Keller, the false smile still keeping the
madman disorientated. 'You don't mind if I sit down, do you?' Sean asked. 'It's
been a long week.' Keller said nothing. 'Hell of a place you've got here,' Sean
continued, 'lots of space. Not easy to find in this neck of the woods. Must
have cost plenty?'
Sean held his silence and his nerve, knowing Keller had to be the next to speak
or the game would be over before it started. While he waited, he studied the
thin, unimpressive man standing on the other side of the foul-smelling kitchen
- a man who would be feared by no one who saw him in the street, a man who
looked like one of life's victims, yet a man who the media and public would
soon be branding a monster. What name would they create for him, Sean wondered:
The South London Strangler? The Keston Rapist? The Keeper?
'I got it cheap,' Keller's weak voice brought Sean back from his musing. 'It
used to be a poultry farm, and they slaughtered calves here, for veal. It put
people off wanting to buy it.'
'But not you?' Sean asked, trying to keep him talking.
'No. Not me, but I don't suppose you came here to talk about how much my land
cost,' said Keller, stepping into the kitchen, his eyes wandering around the
room, avoiding contact with Sean's.
'No,' he agreed. 'It's like I said, I'm doing a follow-up to the visit by my
uniformed colleagues. Do you remember them?'
'Of course,' Keller answered, still standing, his back to a tall, narrow,
built-in cupboard he clearly didn't want to be too far away from.
Sean sensed that the cupboard spelled danger. Was it where he kept his cattle
prod and the stun-gun? Years of experience searching suspects' houses had given
him a sixth sense of where the threat would come from. If Keller went for the
cupboard, he would have to move fast, unthinkingly, hit him hard and stop him
before he got the door open. If he hesitated he could be dead. He needed to get
Keller away from there.
'Why don't you take a seat?'
'No,' Keller replied, 'I'm fine. Thank you.'
'Suit yourself,' he said calmly, despite his soaring heart rate, his eyes
flicking between Keller and the cupboard. 'Did the other officers tell you why
they were here?'
'They said it was about some prowler?'
'That's right,' he said, managing to sound flippant and friendly. 'But we're
also looking for some women who've gone missing,' Sean told him
matter-of-factly, hoping he could panic him into running and confirming his
guilt there and then. 'We're up to three women - so far.' He let the smile slip
from his face, but only for a few seconds while he listed their names. 'Karen
Green, Louise Russell and Deborah Thomson. Those names mean anything to you?'
Again he saw the twitch in Keller's legs.
'No,' he replied. 'Why should they?'
'No reason, other than they've been on the news a lot and in the papers - local
and national.'
'I don't watch television,' Keller answered truthfully.
'Ever read the papers?'
'Not really.' Another truthful answer.
'Then you probably don't know that we've already found two of the women, both
dead. Both slaughtered, just like the animals on this farm used to be.' He
waited for a reaction, but Keller was blank.
'That's very sad. I'm sorry for their families.'
'Sorry for their families?' Sean probed. 'It's the women I'm sorry for. I'm
sorry for Karen Green and I'm sorry for Louise Russell. And unless I find her
soon I'm going to be sorry for Deborah Thomson - it's strange you're not.'
'That's not what I meant,' Keller stammered. 'Listen, I'm very sorry, but I
can't help you and I'm really busy, so if you don't mind ...'
Sean ignored him. 'What happened to your face?' he asked. Keller's hand
involuntarily reached for the deep gouges Deborah Thomson's nails had made.
'Cut yourself walking in the woods round here?' Sean knew the marks had not
been left by a tree, but he didn't want to panic his prey - not yet. 'Me too,'
he continued, pointing to the cut on his own cheek, left by the branch of a
tree at the scene of Louise Russell's body drop.
'Something like that,' Keller answered.
'Who would have thought walking in the woods could be so dangerous?' Sean
asked. Keller said nothing. 'I think my uniform colleagues were a little
worried they hadn't searched your land properly - checked inside the other
buildings and maybe the woods that seem to surround you here.'
'Why would they want to do that?' said Keller, his eyes blinking fast.
'I don't know. I suppose they thought you've got a decent amount of land and
plenty of outbuildings. Lots of places to hide things.'
'Like what?'
'You tell me,' Sean inched closer. Keller said nothing. 'Maybe we could take a
look around now, together - see what we can find.'
'I ...'
'Check the outbuildings together. Check the cellar or bomb shelter or whatever
it is.'
'No. I ...'
'What did you do with the clothes and the mattress?' he suddenly asked. 'The
clothes and the mattress I saw you with?'
'I don't know what you're talking about,' Keller lied, every muscle in his body
tensing, the shotgun in the cupboard behind him so close, already loaded and
primed to fire.
'You know who I spoke to, just before I came here?'
'No.'
'Samantha Shaw, Thomas. I spoke to Samantha Shaw.'
Keller nodded slowly and silently. He understood now.
'You do remember Samantha, don't you, Thomas? We don't forget our gods, do we?
I just wanted to talk to you, you know - alone, before the world falls on you,
Thomas.'
'Why? Why do you want to talk to me? We have nothing to say to each other.'
Sean remembered his interview with Jason Lawlor, the gaps in his own
imagination that Lawlor had been able to fill - the things he'd felt, the
things he'd desired that Sean never could or would. 'After you've raped them,
could you go on smelling them, smelling their sex? Did you avoid washing your
private parts for days after so you could still smell them on you?' He watched
the madman's eyes narrow and then grow wide and round, his nostrils flare as
his breathing intensified. 'God, they smelled so good, didn't they? Tell me,
what was it like, being in their houses, their homes - taking them from the
place where they felt safest of all? My God, that must have made you feel so
... so powerful - so alive. And keeping them close, so you could go to them
whenever you wanted to - whenever you needed to ... Was it everything you
dreamed it would be? Did you feel accepted by them, when you forced yourself
inside them? Did you feel loved?'
'No!' Keller shouted, taking a step towards him and then stopping, almost
making Sean leap from his chair and spray blinding CS gas into his eyes. 'No.
They disgust me. I can't stand the smell of them on me.'
'Then why?' Sean pushed, knowing he must be running out of time, knowing Sally
would have called for assistance almost as soon as he left her and that any
moment half the Metropolitan Police would be crashing through the thin door
behind him.
'They made me do it,' Keller answered. 'They're whores - all of them. They
tricked me. They made me ... be with them, but they disgusted me. I scrubbed
myself in the shower, but still I could smell their stench. They're whores.
They're nothing and I treated them like nothing.'
'But what about Samantha? She wasn't a whore. She wasn't nothing.'
'Don't you talk about her,' Keller warned him, tears welling in his eyes, spit
spraying from his thin, white lips. 'She's not like them. They tried to make me
believe they were her ... the ... the way they cut their hair - the clothes
they wore, everything, but they were just whores. Meaningless whores.'
'So you killed them. You drugged them and you took them into the woods and you
killed them.'
'No,' Keller screamed, taking another step forward, but Sean held his ground,
acting as the bait to draw him further away from the tall cupboard.
'And how did that feel, Thomas? Killing them? When you slipped your hands
around their beautiful, delicate necks and sank your thumbs deep into their
throats - how did that feel?'
'You don't know anything,' Keller screamed.
'When the life ebbed from them, when you held them even after they were dead,
when you stared into their lifeless eyes - how did that feel, Thomas?'
'No. No. No!'
Sean's fist hit the table hard, making the myriad items littering its surface
jump and scatter. 'Damn you - tell me how it felt.'
Hatred poured from Keller's eyes, his face twisted and deformed, his stained
teeth bared and threatening, primeval weapons readied for use, his entire body
a coiled spring about to explode all over Sean. 'Fuck you!' he screamed so
loudly he shattered the very air in the dingy room, spinning quickly and
smoothly, reaching the tall cupboard in micro-seconds and throwing the door
open.
Sean was already on his feet, his right hand pulling the CS spray from his
coat, his left planted on the underside of the table, lifting it upwards and
hurtling it out of his way, providing him with the shortest route to the
madman, cups and plates, half-full glasses flying through the air. It seemed to
happen in slow motion, but it was the shotgun Keller was reaching for that Sean
saw above all else - its wooden stock and shortened black double barrels. He
moved as fast as he'd ever moved in his life, but as he watched Keller's right
hand wrap around the pistol grip of the stock he knew he hadn't moved fast
enough. Keller spun back towards him, the black holes of the gun barrels
bearing down on him. The two men were only three feet from each other,
simultaneously firing their weapons. The CS canister soaked Keller's face in
burning liquid, instantly blinding him and arresting his respiratory system,
while the outside arc of the shotgun blast pounded into Sean's left shoulder,
knocking him backwards through the air and throwing him to the ground, dozens
of red-hot lead pellets feeling first like a punch, then like the feet of a
hundred crawling insects before turning to the searing pain of a thousand wasp
stings.
He looked up at the madman, thrashing and wailing, clawing at his own eyes with
one hand, unwittingly pushing the caustic liquid deeper into them, salivating
uncontrollably, sweeping the shotgun back and forth across the room, trying to
see Sean through blinded eyes, listening for him, finger wrapped around the
trigger. It wouldn't be long before Keller's eyes began to clear, leaving him a
sitting duck, lying on the floor with only one good arm, the CS he'd been
holding long since dropped and lost amongst the wreckage from the table he'd
upturned. He grabbed the first thing of size he could reach, a small saucepan,
and threw it across the room, sending it crashing into the cupboard next to the
sink. Keller spun towards the noise, pointing the shotgun at the place he
thought Sean had to be, his finger squeezing the trigger, but then easing off,
some animal instinct to survive telling him to save his last shot until he was
sure.
Sean groaned inside as he realized his plan had failed and now he was on the
floor and at least eight feet from Keller. He swallowed the searing pain in his
shoulder and managed to hold his useless arm across his chest while crouching
into the starting position of a sprinter, bursting into a full charge, keeping
low as he saw the shotgun sweeping in his direction, Keller's watering eyes
growing wide as they tried to focus on the dark shape covering the short
distance between them. Sean powered his right shoulder hard into Keller's
midriff, carrying him backwards with him until they smashed into the tall
cupboard. The shotgun blast exploded above Sean's head as they fell to the
floor, the cupboard falling on top of them and catching Sean a glancing blow on
his temple, knocking him temporarily senseless. It was all he could do to hold
on to Keller as they wrestled on the filthy floor, but the blow to the head,
the blood loss and the shock of being shot were beginning to tell, beginning to
overwhelm his instinct to survive.
Suddenly Keller was on top of him, overpowering him, his face fading away to be
replaced by the face of his father, sneering and lascivious, before it faded
back to Keller's. A hand grabbed him around the throat and began to squeeze,
the thumb pressing hard on his trachea and making him cough and gag for air,
the fingers of his good arm desperately trying to pull the hand away from his
neck, loosening it just enough so he could breathe as the madman stared down at
him, eyes wild with hatred, his teeth stained with blood from a cut somewhere
inside his mouth, making him appear demonic. Sean was powerless to act as he
watched Keller pull his right fist back and then ram it into his injured,
bleeding shoulder.
Sean screamed out in pain and anger. Keller drew back for a moment then once
more smashed his fist into Sean's wounded shoulder, then repeated the action
again and again. As the blows raining down on him added to his blood loss and
accelerated the effects of shock, Sean's vision began to fail, the man above
him little more than a silhouette. Finally the blows stopped and Keller leaned
close and whispered in his ear.
'Time to die.'
He felt the same long, bony, strong fingers that had strangled Karen Green and
Louise Russell closing around his throat - two hands now, squeezing the life
from him. But just as he felt he was on the verge of blacking out, the hands
released him and the silhouette seemed to rear backwards, a pathetic scream of
pain leaking from his mouth, closely followed by a whimper as the madman
toppled off him and lay next to him on the floor, clutching at the back of his
head.
Sean coughed and gulped for air, the oxygen partially restoring his vision as
he blinked his eyes clear enough to see Sally pulling her handcuffs out and
bending over the stricken Keller. She set her ASP baton on the floor next to
Sean while she rolled Keller on to his front and pulled his hands behind his
back, inflicting as much pain as she could in the process. She clicked one of
the cuffs around his wrist then dragged him a few feet to a thick metal
radiator pipe running along the length of the wall just above floor height. She
fed the cuffs around the back of the pipe and secured his other wrist, then
recovered her ASP from the floor and knelt beside Sean.
Through his shock and confusion Sean was able to piece together what had
happened, the dark hairs, sticky with fresh blood stuck to Sally's ASP told
their own story. He felt his head being lifted as Sally placed her rolled-up
coat under it.
'Don't try and talk,' she told him. 'You've been shot.'
'You don't say,' he answered, laughing in spite of the pain at the absurdity of
her observation. Sally smiled and shook her head. 'Get me up,' he ordered.
'You shouldn't try to move,' she argued.
'I'm fine,' he lied. 'Prop me up against the wall - where I can watch him from.'
'You don't have to worry about him,' she said. 'I'll watch him till back-up
arrives. I'll call you an ambulance.'
'No,' Sean insisted. 'You're going to get Deborah Thomson out of that fucking
dungeon.' He fumbled for his jacket pocket with his one good hand and retrieved
his phone. 'I'll call my own ambulance. You get her.'
'Christ,' she complained as she helped him crawl to the wall, propping him up
limply where he could see the sobbing Keller slumped against the adjacent wall.
'The door to the cellar's locked,' he reminded her. 'You need to search him for
the key. I think he still has it on him.'
'OK,' she nodded, cautiously approaching Keller, her ASP in hand. 'Try anything
and I'll cave your fucking head in,' she warned him - and meant it. She patted
the outsides of his trouser pockets until she felt what she was searching for,
carefully slipping her hand inside his tracksuit and recovering two keys. She
turned and showed them to Sean. 'I've got them,' she announced gleefully.
'Good,' he answered. 'You know what to do.'
She recovered her coat from the floor and placed it over his wounded shoulder.
'Try and keep this pressed against the wound. It'll help stem the bleeding. The
coat's ruined anyway,' she added, making him smile through the increasing
nausea and drowsiness.
'Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. Take the keys and go.'
'OK,' she said and was halfway out the door when Sean stopped her.
'Hey,' he called as loudly as he could. 'I thought I told you to wait outside
until back-up arrived.'
'You did,' she agreed, 'but I got bored.'
He managed one last faint smile and waved her away. As soon as she left the
building his eyes flickered and his head fell forward. A few seconds later -
the darkness came.
Sally picked her way across the forecourt of Keller's dilapidated collection of
old brick buildings with their rusty corrugated-iron roofs, the smell of CS gas
from the kitchen still clinging to her clothes and making her eyes sting and
water. She held them as wide open as she could to let the mixture of sunlight
and spring breeze clear the gas in the safest and quickest way. Several times
she almost tripped on the debris that littered her route towards the small
building Sean was convinced was the entrance to Keller's private dungeon and
torture house. Coughing CS gas from her lungs, its taste acrid and caustic on
her tongue, she paused to peer into an old oil drum with burn marks around its
rim. The smell of lighter fuel and petrol rose from inside the drum, causing
her to examine it closer. She could make out the remnants of burnt clothes at
the bottom, the occasional fragment of colour. 'This is not good,' she muttered.
Reminding herself that Keller was cuffed and secured under Sean's watchful
gaze, she forced herself to approach the door of the brick outbuilding. Taking
a deep breath, she studied the keys in the palm of her hand and then the
padlock. The first key she tried didn't fit. A strange sense of relief washed
over her, brought on by the possibility that she wouldn't have to descend into
the monster's subterranean labyrinth - into the darkness that held nothing but
fear for her. She sighed as she tucked the failed key into her jacket pocket,
looking at the next one, willing it not to fit. But it slid into the slot
smoothly, turning easily and popping the padlock open.
Sally's throat suddenly constricted. She tried to swallow but couldn't. The
time had arrived when she would have to either walk through that wall of
paralysing fear or risk never again being the person she once was. She wriggled
the lock free and placed it carefully on the ground, aware that it would
eventually play its part in forming the chain of evidence that would convict
Keller of the murders and abductions.
The metal door felt as heavy as it looked once she started to pull it open, the
terrible metallic scraping noise catching her by surprise and making her
release the door and jump back, clutching her chest. 'Fuck,' she cursed loudly,
feeling better for it. 'This is not good,' she said again and took hold of the
door, vowing not to let go, no matter what happened. She pulled hard and kept
pulling until the door was fully open, revealing the darkness inside and the
stone steps that led down deeper into the well of her fears and nightmares. Her
immediate reaction was to recoil from the darkness, retreating a few steps, but
she managed to stop herself. 'Shit,' she cursed again. 'This is fucking great.'
She paused, listening for the sound of approaching sirens, but there were none.
'Bloody sticks,' she complained. 'I hate it out in the sticks.' Most cops did.
The inner cities might be dangerous, but assistance was never more than a
couple of minutes away. Out here, you could be on your own fighting for your
life for ten to fifteen minutes before anyone got to you. 'Come on, girl, get a
grip,' she told herself, drawing her ASP - more for comfort than in the belief
she would need to use it. It was stained with Keller's blood - a fact that
somehow made her feel better, bolder.
After several deep breaths to control her breathing and heart rate, she moved
into the doorway and began her descent, squinting in the gloom, moving as
silently as she could, cursing every scratch and scrape her shoes made on the
hard stairs, her hand stretched out in front of her, feeling her way, ready to
push aside any dangers, until at last her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Only
another dozen or so steps and she would be at the end of her descent. But the
further she went, the more she left the fresh air behind her. Now she was
breathing in the sickening stench of unwashed humanity - urine, sweat,
excrement and semen mixed into a foul, ungodly brew. She covered her mouth to
stop herself gagging, desperately fighting the urge to flee back to the clean
air above and abandon whatever creatures lay below to their fate. Halfway down
she had to stop and lean against the wall to chase away the rising panic in her
chest, her head turning towards the light. But it was in the darkness below her
that salvation lay, and she knew it.
'Come on. Come on,' she urged, cursing herself for not having thought to bring
a torch, afraid she would never be able to force herself down these stairs
again if she returned to the house to find one. 'Steady as she goes,' she
muttered, relieved to feel the panic fading somewhat, seizing the moment to
push away from the wall and continue her descent, keeping the wall at her back.
There was always the possibility that Keller had an accomplice or accomplices,
or that he kept vicious, half-starved animals in the cellar.
It seemed to take a lifetime, but eventually she reached the bottom stair and
stepped on to the floor of the underground prison. Inching her way around the
room, back pressed to the wall, she moved away from the stairs. The sound of
trickling water disorientated her; it felt as if she was in a natural cavern
rather than a man-made shelter. As her eyes continued to adjust she made out a
hazy, square object, maybe ten feet in front of her, but she needed to get
closer to see it properly. Counting down from ten, she pushed herself off the
wall and into the free space of the cellar, feeling instantly giddy, as if she
was standing on the edge of a cliff. After a few seconds the dizziness wore off
and she was able to shuffle onward, her feet not trusting the ground underneath
them, convinced she would at any second feel her stomach leap into her mouth as
she fell into some unseen bottomless pit, but the feeling of falling never came.
As she drew closer and closer to the square object she began to realize what it
was - a cage, maybe four foot wide and high, six feet long. Worse, the door to
the cage was open. Her breathing became instantly short and laboured like a
panting dog, as she convinced herself she was trapped in the cellar with some
escaped wild beast that was now circling her in the gloom, clinging to the
edges of the room where it couldn't be seen, preparing to pounce as soon as she
ran for the stairs.
Then she heard it, a noise away to her right, something moving, the animal
positioning itself to attack, the terror of her situation freezing her rigid.
But eventually she forced her head to twist towards the sound, at least enough
so she could see out of the corner of her right eye, another large box
silhouetted in the gloom, a shape huddled in one corner - an unthreatening
shape - something that feared her more than she feared it. She turned fully and
headed towards the box until she could see it was an identical cage to the
first one, only this one's door was shut and there was something inside -
something alive, cowering.
Sally shuffled slowly forward, her ASP gripped tightly at her side, moving
endlessly towards the cage before suddenly freezing again and looking from the
empty cage to the cage with the thing inside. The image of Keller coming from
the door above carrying a mattress and clothes flashed in her memory, the fear
lifting and allowing her to think, the realization of where she was and what
she was seeing flooding over her. The true awfulness of what must have happened
down here suddenly dawned on her as she covered her mouth with her free hand to
try and disguise her words. 'Oh my dear God,' she said, louder than a whisper.
'Oh my dear God.'
She almost ran the last few feet to the cage and kneeled by its side, peering
through the wire at the wild-eyed creature trapped within as she simultaneously
fumbled for the key she knew would fit the lock. 'I'm a police officer,' she
told the filthy, terrified woman trying to hide in the corner of the cage. She
fished her warrant card from her pocket and pressed it against the wire mesh.
'You're Deborah Thomson, yes? I've come to get you out of here.'
The woman didn't reply, her eyes full of mistrust and fear. Sally moved quickly
around to the cage door and wrestled to free the lock, struggling to find the
slot for the key in the dim light. Finally it popped open and she was able to
pull the door free and swing it ajar.
'I think it's time to get out of here. Don't you?' she said.
The woman remained where she was, cowering virtually naked in a corner of the
cage.
'It's over,' Sally reassured her. 'He can't hurt you any more. It's over.'
The woman's bloodied lips finally cracked open. 'Who are you?' she asked, her
voice hoarse and barely audible.
'My name's Sally.' She stretched out her arm, offering Deborah Thomson her
hand. 'Detective Sergeant Sally Jones.'
Kate sat tiredly in the staffroom hidden in the corner of Guy's Hospital
Emergency Department, watching some hideous Sunday afternoon cooking programme
and drinking instant coffee - her sixth of the day. She'd had to dump the kids
on her mum again, thanks to Sean's unscripted absence. No doubt he wouldn't be
home until well after she'd picked the kids up, taken them home, fed them and
put them to bed. She was beginning to feel like she was doing two full-time
jobs without a whole lot of support and she was having to try harder and harder
not to resent it. It wasn't as if Sean was being paid a fortune as a detective
inspector. Worst thing he ever did was take promotion - at least as a sergeant
he got paid overtime, some compensation for never being around. Now he seemed
to work more hours for less money.
Hearing the staffroom door open, she looked up and saw Mary Greer, the A and E
manager, enter. Ignoring the other people slumped around the room, she made a
beeline in Kate's direction. Kate smiled, but Mary didn't smile back. Her own
smile faded as she recognized the expression on the other woman's face. It was
an expression that said she was the bearer of bad news - personal bad news.
Kate's first thought was that it was one of the girls, the fear almost stopping
her heart. But if it was the children, surely Sean would have come? No matter
what was going on at work, he would have dropped everything to be here ...
In that second she realized she'd solved the puzzle. Her hand covered her mouth
as tears pooled in her eyes and her throat swelled almost shut. Mary crossed
the room quickly and held her gently by the shoulders. 'I'm sorry,' she told
her. 'It's Sean. He's on his way in. He's been shot.'
Mostly it was darkness - silent darkness, but the nightmares found their way
through - the orange blast of a gun pointing towards him, faces too close to
his own - his father's, sneering and leering - Thomas Keller's, his red teeth
gritted in hatred, eyes blazing with evil intention - Sebastian Gibran, mocking
him with laughter - Sally lying in the hospital with tubes snaking down her
throat - Kate crying and pleading with him not to leave her - the faces of
Louise Russell and Karen Green, their dead eyes staring at him, their lifeless
blue lips parting to whisper to him: Why didn't you save us? Why didn't you
save us? Why didn't you save us? - their faces slowly changing, growing younger
and younger until they became the faces of his own daughters, their eyes also
the eyes of the lifeless, their lips as pale blue as the lips of the dead women
who'd spoken to him from beyond the grave as they lay broken in the woods - Why
didn't you save us? Why didn't you save us? Why didn't you save us? Then the
darkness came and brought him peace - peace like he'd never known before -
peace like he'd never had since being forced from his mother's womb.
Three Days Later
He heard sounds though he couldn't see anything other than light. Sounds in the
distance, surreal and difficult to make out. A few seconds later his eyes
flickered and opened and he remembered where he was. Kate was sitting by his
bedside, dressed in her hospital uniform, loose blue cotton trousers and
shapeless blue top, her name tag clipped to her breast pocket. 'You fell asleep
again,' she told him. The sun shone brightly through the window of his private
room. He'd only escaped intensive care the night before.
'Sorry,' he murmured, his mouth painfully dry.
'Don't be,' she assured him. 'It's the painkillers. You'll be dopey for a few
days yet.' She lifted his covered water beaker and eased the straw between his
lips. 'You're still pretty dehydrated. You need to try and drink.'
He nodded he understood, sipped the water and looked around the room, even in
his present state able to process the information his eyes were passing to his
brain. Since he'd recovered from his initial surgery he'd been waking for brief
periods and nearly every time she'd been there, waiting for him, snatched
conversations before he drifted away, emotional and tearful at first, but
increasingly calm as the gut-wrenching fear faded somewhat.
'A private room?' he asked, the straw still in his mouth.
'Press got wind of your heroics,' she said. 'They were sniffing around all over
the place dressed as everything from surgeons to porters. We thought we'd
better ferret you away somewhere out of sight.'
'Thanks,' he said, pushing the straw from his mouth with his tongue and
relaxing back into his pillow, the movement making him wince with pain and turn
to look at his shoulder wrapped in heavily layered white bandages with a thin
tube disappearing under them.
'It's a self-administering morphine feed. If you're feeling any pain, just
press this switch.' She pointed at a grey box close to his right hand. 'It's
regulated,' she added, 'so you can't overdose.'
He nodded he understood. He'd only been awake a couple of minutes, but already
felt exhausted. His eyes were beginning to roll back into their sockets when
Kate's voice cut through the morphine and other opioids, the fear in her voice
acting like smelling salts. 'Sean ...' He forced his eyes to open and focus,
like a drunk trying to stay awake on a train. He could see the tears she
wouldn't allow to escape in her eyes.
'That was too close, Sean, way too close. When they told me you'd been shot and
you were being brought in - my heart, Sean - the pain in my ...' She couldn't
finish. He gave her a few seconds to compose herself. 'I've been checking out
the New Zealand Immigration website. I'd have no problem getting a job there,
and neither would you. You could even transfer over as a DI. Listen, Sean -
London, this job you're doing - it's too much. We have to think of the girls. A
new life. A better life - for us all.'
'Maybe ...'
A knock at the open door saved him. Sally appeared, smiling in the doorway.
Kate took it as her cue to leave and stood, bending over him and kissing him on
the forehead.
'Promise me you'll think about it,' she pleaded and headed for the door,
brushing past Sally on the way out.
'How you doing?' Sally asked.
'I'm fine, thank you,' Kate replied with a forced smile before hurrying away
along the sterile corridor. Sally shrugged her shoulders and crossed the room
to Sean, slumping into the chair Kate had just vacated.
'You look well,' she told him with a wry smile. He shook his head and grinned
as much as he could. 'She's hardly left your side, you know. When they first
brought you in, they tried to keep her away, but she wouldn't have it.'
'Did you tell her what happened?'
'I told her you're a bloody idiot.'
'And what about everybody else?'
'I told them you went to the front of the house while I covered the back - that
we didn't think he was at home, which is how he managed to get the drop on you.
There were a few awkward questions about why we didn't wait for back-up, etc.'
'And ...?'
'I said that we believed Deborah Thomson was in clear and imminent danger, so
we had no choice but to go straight in and get her out.'
'Anyone buy your story?'
Sally gave a shrug. 'Keller didn't contradict my account of events.'
'You interviewed him?'
'Yeah.'
'With Dave?'
'No. With Anna.'
'Anna? Jesus.'
'She asked some good questions. She was useful.'
'And Keller - what did he say?'
'I'm guessing you already know.'
He nodded. 'He said nothing.'
'He said less than nothing. He's gone catatonic on us - won't even say his
name. Another future guest for Broadmoor, courtesy of our good selves.'
'Best place for him,' Sean pointed out, his voice beginning to fade. 'Maybe
Anna can interview him again as a patient.'
Sensing his distrust, Sally said, 'She's OK. Anna and I are becoming something
like friends.' Sean raised his eyebrows. 'She's been helping me, you know, with
things.'
'You fixed yourself,' he told her. 'It's what we do, remember?'
'I'm seeing her privately. No one at work knows about it. I'd like to keep it
that way.'
'Fair enough,' he agreed, wilting under the influence of the medication that
kept the pain at bay. Sally saw him drifting and stood to leave, her last words
sounding warped and dreamlike in his head.
'You and I both sailed too close to the wind these past nine months,' she
whispered. 'The physical stuff heals, Sean, but we're not the same after. We'll
never be the same people we were. But then again, maybe that's not such a bad
thing.'
He blinked slowly twice - then the darkness came.
Epilogue
Detective Superintendent Featherstone sat in his office at Shooters' Hill
police station poring over the reports generated by the investigation and
arrest of Thomas Keller. With Corrigan still cooped up in hospital, he'd
inherited a lot more paperwork than he cared for. Waste of time, he told
himself - the shrinks would say Keller was barking mad and the courts would
agree. There'd be no trial, just a plea of not guilty on the grounds of
diminished responsibility that the CPS would accept. Then Keller would be
marched off to Broadmoor for the rest of his natural. Waste of everybody's time
and money.
The phone ringing on his desk made him look up from Sally's written account of
Keller's arrest and Deborah Thomson's rescue, an account that had caused him to
raise his eyebrows on more than one occasion. He snatched at the phone.
'Detective Superintendent Featherstone speaking.' He never tired of using his
full rank on the phone - or anywhere else, for that matter.
'Alan, it's Assistant Commissioner Addis here.' Featherstone rolled his eyes
and sank deep into his chair. 'You need to know, a lot of people are asking a
lot of questions.'
'About what, exactly?'
'DI Corrigan,' Addis answered.
'Such as?'
'Such as will he ever be fit to return to duty?'
'He'll need another operation to repair his shoulder, but I'm led to believe
he'll make a full recovery.'
'Good. How soon?'
'I don't know - a few months, maybe less.'
'Let's make it less, shall we.'
'I don't understand,' said Featherstone. 'What's the rush?'
'Maximizing the use of assets, Alan,' Addis explained. 'I want him in place and
ready for the next time. Special Cases only - understood?'
'Yes, sir.' Featherstone listened to the line go dead, Addis's words playing in
his mind.
The next time. The next time.
Acknowledgements
Firstly I would like to acknowledge and say a huge thank you to my agent -
Simon Trewin, now at William Morris Endeavour, for the incredible belief he
showed in this untried, untested and untrained author. The work he put in to
make my first book - Cold Killing - a viable piece of literature was
miraculous, as were his efforts to secure fantastic publishing deals in
Britain, the Commonwealth, America and beyond. Without Simon there would have
been no first book, let alone a second. I'd also like to mention his assistant
at the time and now agent in her own right - Ariella Feiner at United Agents,
for all her work thus far.
Secondly I'd like to say a massive thank you to all the staff at HarperCollins
Publishers for everything they've done for me, especially Kate Elton for having
the courage to take such a big chance on an unknown quantity like myself and to
Sarah Hodgson who's not only been my fantastic editor, but also my chief
liaison officer and guide in what to me is still the weird and wonderful world
of publishing. A hearty thanks also to the rest of the team - Adam, Oli,
Louise, Tanya, Kiwi Kate, Hannah and everyone else. Many, many thanks.
LD
About the Author
Luke Delaney joined the Metropolitan Police Service in the late 1980s and his
first posting was to an inner city area of South East London notorious for high
levels of crime and extreme violence. He later joined CID where he investigated
murders ranging from those committed by fledgling serial killers to gangland
assassinations.
Also By Luke Delaney
Cold Killing
If you enjoyed The Keeper, try the first in the DI Sean Corrigan series:
COLD KILLING
NO MOTIVE. NO MERCY. NO REMORSE.
A series of brutal killings leaves South London's Murder Investigation Unit
struggling to connect the crimes: no recognizable method; no forensic evidence;
and the victims have nothing in common.
NO TIME TO LOSE.
DI Sean Corrigan's troubled past has left him with an uncanny ability to
identify the darkness in others - a darkness he struggles to keep buried within
his own psyche. Sean knows these murders are the work of one man. As the
violence escalates, Sean must find the evidence he needs to bring the
perpetrator to justice - before the next attack hits too close to home ...
Click here to buy Cold Killing
Or read on for an extract ...
An extract from Cold Killing
1
Saturday. I agreed to come to the park with the wife and children. They're over
there on the grassy hill, just along from the pond. They've fed themselves, fed
the ducks and now they're feeding their own belief that we're one normal happy
family. And to be fair, as far as they're concerned, we are. I won't let the
sight of them spoil my day. The sun is shining and I'm getting a bit of a tan.
The memory of the latest visit is still fresh and satisfying. It keeps the
smile on my face.
Look at all these people. Happy and relaxed. They've no idea I'm watching them.
Watching as small children wander away from their mothers too distracted by
idle chat to notice. Then they realize their little darling has wandered too
far and up goes that shrill shriek of an over-protective parent, followed by a
leg slap for the child and more shrieking.
I am satisfied for the time being. The fun I had last week will keep me
contented for a while, so everyone is safe today.
I thoroughly enjoyed the time I spent with the little queer. I made it look
like a domestic murder. I've heard fights between people like him can get
nasty, so I had a bit of fun with the idea.
He was easy enough to dispatch. These people live dangerous lives. They make
perfect victims. So I hunted amongst them, looking for someone, and I found him.
I had already decided to spend the evening stalking the patrons of a Vauxhall
nightclub, Utopia. What a ridiculous name. More like Hell, if you ask me. I
told my wife I was out of town on business, packed some spare clothes,
toiletries, the usual things for a night away and booked a hotel room in
Victoria. I could hardly turn up at home in the early hours. That would arouse
suspicions. I couldn't have that. Everything at home needed to appear ...
normal.
I also packed a paper decorating suit that I bought at Homebase, several pairs
of surgical gloves - readily available from all sorts of shops - a shower cap
and some plastic bags to cover my feet. A little noisy, but effective. And last
but not least a syringe. All fitted neatly into a small rucksack.
Avoiding the CCTV cameras that swamped the area, I watched the entrance to the
club from the shadows of the railway bridge as the sound of the trains
reverberated through the archways.
I had already spied my target entering the club earlier that evening. The
excitement made my testicles tighten. Yes, he was truly worthy of my special
attentions. This wasn't the first time I had seen him. I had watched him a
couple of weeks earlier, watched him whore himself inside the club with whoever
could match his price. I had been searching for the perfect victim, knowing the
police would only check CCTV from the night he died or, if they were especially
diligent, maybe the week before.
I had stood in the midst of the heaving throng of stinking, foul humanity,
bodies brushing past my own, tainting my being with their diseased
imperfection, while at the same time inflaming my already excited, heightened
senses. I so wanted to reach out and take each and every one of them by the
throat, crushing trachea after trachea as the dead began to pile at my feet. I
fought hard to control the surging strength within, then terror gripped me,
terror like I have never felt in my entire life. Terror that the real me was
revealing itself, that all those around me could see me changing in front of
their very eyes, my skin glowing brilliant red, bright white light spilling
from my eyes and ears, vomiting from my mouth. Heavy drops of sweat had snaked
down my back, guided by my swelling, cramping back muscles. Somehow I had
managed to move my legs, pushing through a crowd of squabbling worshippers
until I reached the bar and stared into the giant mirror hanging behind it.
Relief washed over me, slowing my heart and cooling my sweat as I could see I
hadn't changed, hadn't betrayed myself.
Now the time for watching was over. It was time for my prize, my release, my
relief. All was in place. All was as it needed to be. At last I saw him leaving
the club. He was shouting goodbyes, but seemed to be alone. He walked casually
under the railway bridge, heading towards Vauxhall Bridge. I moved quickly and
silently to the other side of the railway bridge and waited for him. As he
neared, I stepped out. He saw me, but didn't look scared. He returned my smile
as I spoke to him.
'Excuse me.'
'Yes,' he replied, still smiling, stepping closer to the street light to better
see me. 'Is there something I can do for ... you,' he said, recognition
spreading across his face. 'We really must stop meeting like this.' Yes, I'd
been with him before. A risk, but a calculated one. A little more than a week
ago, inside the nightclub, I'd introduced myself without speaking, making sure
he saw my smiling face just long enough so he'd recognize it again. Later I met
him outside. I paid him what he asked, all in advance, and we went back to his
flat where I defiled myself inside him and even allowed him to defile the
inside of me. The sex wasn't important, or even pleasurable - that wasn't the
point of being with him. I wanted to feel him while he was alive, to understand
he wasn't merely an inanimate thing, but a real live person. I couldn't be with
him like that the night I dispatched him in case I left the faintest trace of
semen or saliva on his body. Being with him a week or so before would give any
such evidence time to degrade and die. And of course we practised safe sex: he
to protect himself from the Gay Plague and I to protect myself from detection.
I'd shaved away my pubic hair and wore a full-faced rubber mask that also
covered my head, stopping any head hairs from being left at the scene, as well
as rubber gloves to eliminate the risk of leaving fingerprints - all of which
the little queer thought was simply part of the fun. But the fun, the real fun,
was yet to come and I had more than a week to fantasise about events that lay
ahead.
The days had passed painfully slowly, testing my patience and control to the
limit, but the memories of the night I had been with him and the thought of
things to come carried me through and before I knew it he was standing in front
of me, his small, straight white teeth glistening in the street lights, his
oval-shaped head too large for his scrawny neck, perched on slim, narrow
shoulders. His hair was blond and straight, shoulder-length, styled to make him
look like a surfer, but his skin was pale and his body weak. The most athletic
thing he had ever done was drop to his knees. His T-shirt was too tight and
short, revealing his flat stomach, disappearing into hipster designer jeans
worn to provoke the sexual urges of his peers.
I told him I needed to be with him again. I lied that I had been inside the
club and had seen him dancing, that I had been too nervous to approach him
then, but now I really wanted him. We talked some more crap then he said, 'You
know I'm not cheap. If you want to be with me again it'll cost.'
He suggested we go to my place so I told him my boyfriend would be there, but
he started rambling on about not taking people back to his flat and how last
time had been an exception, until I pulled another two fifties from my wallet
and thrust them into his hand. He smiled.
We went to my car, fixed with false plates, and drove to his shit-hole in
south-east London where I was sure not to park too close to his block. Telling
him I didn't want to take the risk of being seen walking to his flat with him,
I suggested that he go ahead and leave the door unlocked.
I waited a couple of minutes, then, as the street was empty, no one staring
from windows, I walked to the flat. The block was old, cold and smelled of
piss, but he had been a good boy and left the door unlocked. I quietly entered
and flicked the lock on. He appeared around the corner at the end of the
corridor, from what I knew was the living room. He spoke.
'Was that you locking the door?'
'Yes,' I replied. 'Can't be too careful these days.'
'Afraid someone's going to burst in on us and spoil the party?'
'Something like that.'
The excitement was unbearable. My stomach was so cramped with anticipation I
could hardly breathe. Inside, my mind was screaming, but I was still wearing my
nervous smile as I walked into the living room.
The whore was crouched by his CD player. I told him I wanted to clean up a
little and headed for the bathroom down the hallway.
I took my bag with me and quickly, if somewhat awkwardly, pulled on the suit,
the shower cap, rubber gloves and finally the plastic bags over my shoes. I
looked in the mirror, filling my lungs with air drawn in hard through my nose.
I was ready.
Fully prepared, I returned to the living room. He turned and saw me dressed and
resplendent. He'd already removed his T-shirt, and he started to giggle,
covering his mouth as if to stop himself.
He spoke to me. 'Is this how we're going to get our kicks tonight then?'
'Sort of,' I replied. 'Sort of.'
They were the last words he spoke, although he may have said 'please' a little
later. By then the blood bubbling up into his mouth made it just a gargle.
With a smooth, swift, practised hand I grabbed an iron statue of a naked Indian
he kept on his side table and I used it to smash his skull, not hitting him
hard enough to kill him straight away, merely to render him semi-conscious and
virtually paralysed. He had been on his knees when I hit him, which was good -
less distance to fall meant less noise when he hit the floor.
I watched him for a while, standing over him like the victor in a prizefight,
watching his chest rise and fall with each painful, strained breath, the blood
initially spurting from the wound in his head, then slowing to a steady flow as
his heart grew too weak to pump it at the pressure his body required to stay
alive. Every few seconds his right leg would twitch like a dying bird.
It wouldn't have been as I had dreamed if he hadn't been at least partly
conscious when I went to him with an ice pick I found in his drinks cabinet. I
needed him to be alive as I cut him. I needed to see him try to stop me each
time I pushed the ice pick into his dying body: not stabbing frenziedly, but
placing it deliberately against his pale skin before pushing the point through
with a deliciously satisfying popping sound. Now and then he would reach up and
pitifully try to defend himself from the torture. I told him not to be a
naughty boy and continued with my work. It was a shame his brain haemorrhaging
had caused his eyes to turn red, as I had wanted to contrast his blue eyes
against the pale bloodied skin. Next time I'd do better.
His perforated body almost began to disgust me, to make me want to flee from
the scene, but I couldn't stop yet. Not until all was as close as it could be
to how I had seen it in my mind the first time I knew I would be visiting him.
I would continue with my work, despite the foul stench emanating from the holes
in his stomach and intestines, the urine and excreta that were now leaking from
his transformed body.
He held on for forty minutes, his eyes flickering slightly open for a few
minutes at a time. When they were open I did my work, stopping whenever he
passed out, unable to bear the pain or grasp his situation. I had to punch him
in the face every so often to stop him calling out. Not that he could have
realistically raised more than a whimper. Still, I had to be sure.
When he finally died, a slow, quiet hiss of air escaping from his lips and the
breaches in his chest wall told me that my fun had come to an end. I put on a
clean pair of surgical gloves and took the three hundred pounds cash I had
given him earlier from his trouser pocket. I really didn't want to leave that
behind. I carefully and quietly broke apart some furniture and generally
arranged the room as if a violent struggle had occurred. Next I used the
syringe I'd brought to draw blood from his mouth and sprayed it about the room:
on the walls, over the furniture, the carpet, making spray patterns to suggest
a violent struggle had taken place. Then I moved to the corner of the room I
had left clean. I removed my clothes and put them inside a plastic bag and put
that bag inside another plastic bag and repeated this twice more. I ensured
each plastic bag was tied securely and finally put them in my rucksack. I put
new plastic bags on my feet, not wanting to take the chance that I might step
on a spot of blood - that sort of evidence can be difficult to explain. I put
on another clean pair of rubber surgical gloves and left the living room. I
would burn the lot in my garden the following evening, the safest way to
dispose of such incriminating items. To burn them in a public place risked
attracting attention, while burial would leave them at the mercy of inquisitive
animals.
I moved quietly to the front door. I took the plastic bags off my shoes and
looked through the spyhole. Nobody about. Just to be sure, I listened at the
door, careful not to let my ear press against it and possibly leave a mark like
a fingerprint, which I hear can happen.
When I was totally happy I slipped out of the flat, leaving the front door open
so as not to make any more noise than necessary. The statue of the Indian and
the ice pick I threw in the Thames as I headed north to my hotel. The thought
of the police wasting hours searching for weapons that wouldn't help their
investigation in the slightest pleased me.
When I reached my hotel I slipped in through the side door next to the bar,
only generally used as a fire exit. I knew it could open from the outside and
had no CCTV camera trained on it. I already had the key card for my room,
having checked in earlier that day. I took a long shower, keeping the water as
hot as I could bear, scrubbing skin, nails and hair vigorously with a nail
brush until my entire body felt like it had been burned by flames. I had
removed the plug cover to allow any items washed from my body to flow easily
into London's sewage system. After the shower I took a long steaming bath and
scrubbed myself again. Once dry, I lay naked on the bed and drank two bottles
of water, at peace now. Satisfied. Soon sleep came and I dreamed the same
beautiful dream over and over.
2
Thursday morning
It was 3 a.m. and Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan drove through the dreary
streets of New Cross, south-east London. He had been born and raised in nearby
Dulwich, and for as long as he could remember, these streets had been a
dangerous place. People could quickly become victims here, regardless of age,
sex or colour. Life had little value.
But these worries were for other people, not Sean. They were for the people who
had nine-to-five jobs in shops and offices. Those who arrived bleary-eyed to
work each morning, then scuttled home nervously every evening, only feeling
safe once they'd bolted themselves behind closed doors.
Sean didn't fear the streets, having dealt with the worst they could throw at
him. He was a detective inspector in charge of one of South London's Murder
Investigation Teams, dedicated to dealing with violent death. The killers
hunted their victims and Sean hunted them. He drove with the window down and
doors unlocked.
Less than an hour earlier he'd been asleep at home when Detective Sergeant Dave
Donnelly called. There'd been a murder. A bad one. A young man beaten and
stabbed to death in his own flat. One minute Sean was lying by his wife's side,
the next he was driving to the place where a young man's life had been torn
away.
He found the address without difficulty. The streets around the murder scene
were eerily quiet. He was pleased to see the uniformed officers had done their
job properly and taped off a large cordon around the block the flat was in.
He'd been to scenes before where the cordon started and stopped at the front
door. How much evidence had been carried away from scenes on the soles of
shoes? He didn't want to think about it.
There were two marked patrol cars alongside Donnelly's unmarked Ford. He always
laughed at the murder scenes on television, with dozens of police cars parked
outside, all with blue lights swirling away. Inside, dozens of detectives and
forensic guys would be falling over each other. Reality was different. Entirely
different.
Real crime scenes were all the more disturbing for their quietness - the
violent death of the victim would leave the atmosphere shattered and
brutalised. Sean could feel the horror closing in around him as he examined a
scene. It was his job to discover the details of death and over time he had
grown hardened to it, but not immune. He knew that this scene would be no
different.
He parked outside the taped-off cordon and climbed from the isolation of his
car into the warm loneliness of the night, the stars of the clear sky and the
street lights removing all illusion of darkness. If he had been anyone else,
doing any other job, he might have noticed how beautiful it was, but such
thoughts had no place here. He flashed his warrant card to the approaching
uniformed officer and grunted his name. 'DI Sean Corrigan, Serious Crime Group
South. Where's this flat?'
The uniformed officer was young. He seemed afraid of Sean. He must be new if a
mere detective inspector scared him. 'Number sixteen Tabard House, sir. It's on
the second floor, up the stairs and turn right. Or you could take the lift.'
'Thanks.'
Sean opened the boot of his car and cast a quick glance over the contents
squeezed inside. Two large square plastic bins contained all he would need for
an initial scene examination. Paper suits and slippers. Various sizes of
plastic exhibit bags, paper bags for clothing, half a dozen boxes of plastic
gloves, rolls of sticky labels and of course a sledgehammer, a crowbar and
other tools. The boot of Sean's car would be mirrored by detectives' cars
across the world.
He pulled on a forensic containment suit and headed towards the stairwell. The
block was of a type common to this area of London. Low-rise tenement blocks
made from dark, oppressive, brown-grey brick which had been thrown up after the
Second World War to house those bombed out of old slum areas. In their time
they'd been a revelation - indoor toilets, running water, heating - but now
only those trapped in poverty lived in them. They looked like prisons, and in a
way that's what they were.
The stairwell smelled of urine. The stench of humanity living on top of each
other was unmistakable. This was summer and the vents of the flats pumped out
the smells from within. Sean almost gagged on it, the sight, sound and smell of
the tenement block reminding him all too vividly of his own childhood, living
in a three-bedroom, council owned maisonette with his mother, two brothers, two
sisters and his father - his father who would lead him away from the others,
taking him to the upstairs bedroom where things would happen. His mother too
frightened to intervene - thoughts of reaching for a knife in the kitchen
drawer swirling in her head, but fading away as her courage deserted her. But
the curse of his childhood had left him a rare and dark insightfulness - an
ability to understand the motivation of those he hunted.
All too often the abused become the abusers as the darkness overtakes them,
evil begetting evil - a terrible cycle of violence, virtually impossible to
break - and so the demons of Sean's past were too deeply assimilated in his
being to ever be rid of. But Sean was different in that he could control his
demons and his rage, using his shattered upbringing to allow him insights that
other cops could only dream of into the crimes he investigated. He understood
the killers, rapists and arsonists - understood why they had to do what they
did, could interpret their motivation - see what they had seen, smell what they
had smelt, feel what they had felt - their excitement, power, lust, revulsion,
guilt, regret, fear. He could make leaps in investigations others struggled to
understand, filling in the blanks with his unique imagination. Crime scenes
came alive in his mind's eye, playing in his head like a movie. He was no
psychic or clairvoyant, he was just a cop - but a cop with a broken past and
dangerous future, his skill at reading the ones he hunted born of his own dark,
haunted past. Where better for a failed disciple of true evil to hide than
amongst cops? Where better to turn his unique tools to good use than the
police? He swallowed the bile rising in his throat and headed for the crime
scene - the murder scene.
Sean stopped briefly to acknowledge another uniformed officer posted at the
front door of the flat. The constable lifted the tape across the door and
watched him duck inside. He looked down the corridor of the flat. It was bigger
than it had seemed from the outside. Detective Sergeant Donnelly waited for
him, his large frame filling the doorway, his moustache all but concealing the
movement of his lips as he talked. Dave Donnelly, twenty-year plus veteran of
the Metropolitan Police and very much Sean's old school right-hand man. His
anchor to the logical and practical course of an investigation and part-time
crutch to lean on. They'd had their run-ins and disagreements, but they
understood each other - they trusted each other.
'Morning, guv'nor. Stick to the right of the hallway here. That's the route
I've been taking in and out,' Donnelly growled in his strange accent, a mix of
Glaswegian and Cockney, his moustache twitching as he spoke.
'What we got?' Sean asked matter-of-factly.
'No sign of forced entry. Security is good in the flat, so he probably let the
killer in. All the damage to the victim seems to have been done in the living
room. A real fucking mess in there. No signs of disturbance anywhere else. The
living room is the last door on the right down the corridor. Other than that
we've got a kitchen, two bedrooms, a separate bathroom and toilet. From what
I've seen, the victim kept things reasonably clean and tidy. Decent taste in
furniture. There's a few photies of the victim around the place - as best I can
tell, anyway. His injuries make it a wee bit difficult to be absolutely sure.
There's plenty of them with him, shall we say, embracing other men.'
'Gay?' Sean asked.
'Looks that way. It's early days, but there's definitely some decent hi-fi and
TV stuff around the place, and I notice several of the photies have our boy in
far-flung corners of the world. Must have cost a few pennies. We're not dealing
with a complete loser here. He had a decent enough job, or he was a decent
enough villain, although I don't get the feel this is a villain's home.' Both
men craned their heads around the hallway area, as if to confirm Donnelly's
assessment so far. He continued: 'And I've found a few letters all addressed to
a Daniel Graydon. Nothing for anyone else.'
'Well, Daniel Graydon,' Sean asked, 'what the hell happened to you? And why?'
'Shall we?' With an outstretched hand pointing along the corridor, Donnelly
invited Sean to continue.
They moved from room to room, leaving the living room to the end. They trod
carefully, moving around the edges so as not to disturb any invisible footprint
indentations left in the carpets or minute but vital evidence: a strand of
hair, a tiny drop of blood. Occasionally Sean would take a photograph with his
small digital camera. He would keep the photographs for his personal use only,
to remind him of details he had seen, but also to put himself back at the scene
any time he needed to sense it again, to smell the odour of blood, to taste the
sickly sweet flavour of death. To feel the killer's presence. He wished he
could be alone in the flat, without the distraction of having to talk to anyone
- to explain what he was seeing and feeling. It had been the same ever since he
was a young cop, his ability to step into the shoes of the offender, be it a
residential burglary or murder. But only the more alarming scenes seemed to
trigger this reaction. Walking around scenes of domestic murders or gangland
stabbings he saw more than most other detectives, but felt no more than they
did. This scene already seemed different. He wished he was alone.
Sean felt uncomfortable in the flat. Like an intruder. As if he should be
constantly apologizing for being there. He shook off the feeling and mentally
absorbed everything. The cleanliness of the furniture and the floors. Were the
dishes washed and put away? Had any food been left out? Did anything, no matter
how small, seem somehow out of place? If the victim kept his clothing neatly
folded away, then a shirt on the floor would alert Sean's curiosity. If the
victim had lived in squalor, a freshly cleaned glass next to a sink full of
dirty dishes would attract his eye. Indeed, Sean had already noted something
amiss.
Sean and Donnelly came to the living room. The door was ajar, exactly how it
had been found by the young constable. Donnelly moved inside. Sean followed.
There was a strong smell of blood - a lot of blood. It was a metallic smell.
Like hot copper. Sean recalled the times he'd tasted his own blood. It always
made him think that it tasted exactly like it smelled. At least this man had
been killed recently. It was summer now - if the victim had been there for a
few days the flat would have reeked. Flies would have filled the room, maggots
infesting the body. He felt a jolt of guilt for being glad the man had just
been killed.
Sean crouched next to the body, careful to avoid stepping in the pool of thick
burgundy blood that had formed around the victim's head. He'd seen many murder
victims. Some had almost no wounds to speak of, others had terrible injuries.
This was a bad one. As bad as he'd seen.
'Jesus Christ. What the hell happened in this room?' Sean asked.
Donnelly looked around. The dining-room table was overturned. Two of the chairs
with it had been destroyed. The TV had been knocked from its stand. Pictures
lay smashed on the floor. CDs were strewn around the room. The lights from the
CD player blinked in green.
'Must have been a hell of a fight,' Donnelly said.
Sean stood up, unable to look away from the victim: a white male, about twenty
years old, naked from the waist up, wearing hipster jeans that were heavily
soaked in blood. One sock remained on his right foot, the other was nowhere to
be seen. He was lying on his back, the left leg bent under the right, with both
arms stretched out in a crucifix position. There were no restraints of any kind
in evidence. The left side of his face and head had been caved in. The victim's
light hair allowed Sean to see two serious head wounds indicating horrific
fractures to the skull. Both eyes were swollen almost completely shut and his
nose was smashed, with congealed blood clustered around it. The mouth hadn't
escaped punishment, the lips showing several deep cuts, with the jaw hanging
dislocated. Sean wondered how many teeth would be missing. The right ear was
nowhere to be seen. He hoped to God the man had died from the first blow to his
head, but he doubted it.
The pool of blood by the victim's head was the only heavy saturation area other
than his clothing. Elsewhere there were dozens of splash marks: on the walls,
furniture and carpet. Sean imagined the victim's head being whipped around by
the ferocity of the blows, the blood from his wounds travelling in a fine spray
through the air until it landed where it now remained. Once examined properly,
these splash marks should provide a useful map of how the attack had developed.
The victim's body had not been spared. Sean wasn't about to start counting, but
there must have been at least fifty to a hundred stab wounds. The legs,
abdomen, chest and arms had all been brutally attacked. Sean looked around for
weapons, but could see none. He returned his gaze to the shattered body, trying
to free his mind, to see what had happened to the young man now lying dead on
his own floor. For the most fleeting of moments he saw a figure hunched over
the dying man, something that resembled a screwdriver rather than a knife
gripped in his hand, but the image was gone as quickly as it arrived. Finally
he managed to look away and speak.
'Who found the body?'
'That would be us,' Donnelly replied.
'How so?'
'Well, us via a concerned neighbour.'
'Is the neighbour a suspect?'
'No, no,' Donnelly dismissed the idea. 'Some young bird from a few doors down,
on her way home with her kebab and chips after a night of shagging and
drinking.'
'Did she enter the flat?'
'No. She's not the hero type, by all accounts. She saw the door slightly open
and decided we ought to know about it. If she'd been sober, she probably
wouldn't have bothered.'
Sean nodded his agreement. Alcohol made some people conscientious citizens in
the same way it made others violent temporary psychopaths.
'Uniform sent a unit around to check it out and found our victim here,'
Donnelly added.
'Did he trample the scene?'
'No, he's a probationer straight out of Hendon and still scared enough to
remember what he's supposed to do. He kept to the edges, touched nothing.'
'Good,' Sean said automatically, his mind having already moved on, already
growing heavy with possibilities. 'Well, whoever did this is either very angry
or very ill.'
'No doubt about that,' Donnelly agreed.
There was a pause, both men taking the chance to breathe deeply and steady
themselves, clearing their minds, a necessary prelude before trying to think
coldly and logically. Seeing this brutality would never be easy, would never be
matter-of-fact.
'Okay. First guess is we're looking at a domestic murder.'
'A lover's tiff?' Donnelly asked.
Sean nodded. 'Whoever did this probably took a fair old beating themselves,' he
added. 'A man fighting for his life can do a lot of damage.'
'I'll check the local hospitals,' Donnelly volunteered. 'See if anyone who
looks like they've been in a real ding-dong has been admitted.'
'Check with the local police stations for the same and wake the rest of the
team up. Let's get everyone together at the station for an eight a.m. briefing.
And we might as well see if we can get a pathologist to examine the body while
it's still in place.'
'That won't be easy, guv.'
'I know, but try. See if Dr Canning is available. He sometimes comes out if
it's a good one, and he's the best.'
'I'll do what I can, but no promises.'
Sean surveyed the scene. Most murders didn't take long to solve. The most
obvious suspect was usually the right suspect. The panicked nature of the crime
provided an Aladdin's cave of forensic evidence. Enough to get a conviction. In
cases like this, detectives often had to do little more than wait for the
laboratory to examine the exhibits from the scene and provide all the answers.
But as Sean looked around something was already niggling away at his instincts.
Donnelly spoke again. 'Seems straightforward?'
'Yeah, I'm pretty happy.' He let the statement linger.
'But ...?'
'The victim almost certainly knew his killer. No forced entry, so he's let him
in. A boyfriend is a fair bet. This smells like a domestic murder. A few too
many drinks. A heated argument. A fight kicks off and gets nastier and nastier,
both end up beaten to a pulp and one dies. A crime of passion which the killer
had no time to prepare. He's lost it for a while, killed a friend. A lover. Now
all he wants to do is run. Get away from this flat and be somewhere safe to
think out his next move. But there's a couple of things missing for me.'
'Such as?'
'They've probably been having a drink, but there are no glasses anywhere. Can
you remember dealing with a domestic murder where alcohol wasn't involved?'
'Maybe he cleaned the place up a bit?' Donnelly offered. 'Washed the glasses
and put them away.'
'Why would he bother cleaning a glass when his blood and fingerprints must be
all over the place after a struggle like this?'
'Panic?' Donnelly suggested. 'Wasn't thinking straight. He cleaned up his
glass, maybe started to clean up other stuff too before he realized he was
wasting his time.'
'Maybe.'
Sean was thinking hard. The lack of signs of alcohol was a small point, but any
experienced detective would have expected to find evidence of its use at a
scene like this. An empty bottle of cider. A half-empty bottle of Scotch, or a
champagne bottle to fuel the rage of the rich. But it was the image he was
beginning to visualize that was plaguing him with doubt - the image his mind
was piecing together using evidence that was missing as much as evidence that
was present. The image of a figure crouching very deliberately over the victim.
No frenzy, no rage, but evil in a human form.
'There's something else,' he told Donnelly. 'The killing obviously took place
in the living room. We know he must have gone out the front door because
everything else is locked up nice and tight. But the hallway is clean. Nothing.
The carpet is light beige, yet there's no sign of a bloody footprint. And the
door handle? Nothing. No blood. Nothing.
'So our killer beats and stabs the victim to death in a frenzied moment of rage
and yet stops to clean his hands before opening any doors. After killing a man
who may have been his lover, he's suddenly calm enough to take his shoes off
and tiptoe out the place. That doesn't make a lot of sense.'
Donnelly joined in. 'And if our boy did stop to clean himself up before
leaving, then where did he get clean? He had two choices. The sink in the
bathroom or the sink in the kitchen.'
Sean continued for him. 'We've seen both of them. Clean as a whistle. No signs
of recent use. Not even a splash of water.'
'Aye,' Donnelly said. 'But it's probably nothing. We're assuming too much.
Maybe forensics will prove us wrong and find some blood in the hallway we can't
see.'
Sean wasn't convinced, but before he could reply the uniformed constable at the
front door called into the flat. 'Excuse me, sir, your lab team is here.'
Sean shouted a reply. 'Coming out.'
He and Donnelly walked from the flat carefully, keeping to the route they'd
used on entering. They walked to the edge of the taped-off cordon where they
knew Detective Sergeant Andy Roddis would be waiting with his team of specially
trained detectives and scene examiners.
DS Roddis saw Sean and Donnelly approach. He observed their forensics suits but
was not impressed. 'I take it you two have already been trampling all over my
scene.' He was right to be annoyed. The book said no one into the house except
the scene examination team. 'Next time I'm going to seize your clothing as
exhibits.'
Sean needed Roddis on his side.
'Sorry, Andy,' he said. 'We haven't touched a thing. Promise.'
'I hear you have a dead male for me in flat number sixteen. Yes?' Roddis still
sounded irritated.
'I'm afraid so,' said Donnelly.
Roddis turned to Sean. 'Anything special you want from us?'
'No. Our money's on a domestic, so stick to the basics. You can keep the
expensive toys locked away.'
'Very well,' Roddis replied. 'Blood, fibres, prints, hair and semen it is.'
Donnelly and Sean were already walking away. Sean called over his shoulder.
'I'm briefing my team at eight a.m. Try and get me a preliminary report before
then.'
'I might be able to phone something through to you. Will that do?'
'Fine,' said Sean. Right now he would take anything on offer.
If you want to find out more about DI Sean Corrigan, try this short story:
Redemption of the Dead
A chilling short story taking us back to DI Sean Corrigan's days as a newly
minted detective ...
1993. The Parkside Rapist has been terrorizing the women of South London, and
Detective Chief Superintendent Charlie Bannan is in need of a secret weapon if
he's going to catch this particular monster.
When fresh-faced PC Sean Corrigan is transferred to join the team, Bannan
immediately spots his potential. Soon Sean will find himself exploring the
scars his own dark past has left him in the race to help his new mentor catch
their quarry before he goes on to commit more, and worse crimes ...
Click here to buy Redemption of the Dead
Copyright
Harper
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First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2013
Copyright (c) Luke Delaney 2013
Luke Delaney asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
Extract from Cold Killing (c) Luke Delaney 2013
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents
portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American copyright Conventions.
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Source ISBN: 9780007486090
Ebook Edition AUGUST 2013 ISBN: 9780007486106
Version: 2013-08-01
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Cold Killing
by
LUKE DELANEY
Grade 1.
DI Sean Corrigan is not like other detectives. The terrible abuse he suffered
in childhood hasn't stopped him enjoying family life with his wife and two
daughters, or pursuing an impressive career with South London's Murder
Investigation Unit. But it has left him with an uncanny ability to identify the
darkness in others - a darkness he recognises still exists deep within his own
psyche and battles to keep buried there.
Now Sean's on the trail of the most dangerous killer he's ever encountered. The
perpetrator has no recognisable MO, leaves no forensic evidence and his victims
have nothing in common. But Sean knows they were all murdered by the same man.
Now all he has to do is find the evidence, convince his bosses and stop the
killing ... before his adversary gets too close to home...
DEDICATION
There are so many people I could dedicate this book to, without whom my writing
career would have been over before it even began, but I feel a shared
dedication can some how lose much of its power and I didn't want that as this
particular dedication is so personal to me and indeed others who were close to
the man.
So I dedicate this first novel to my dad, Mike. For reasons of maintaining the
anonymity of my family, friends and myself, I cannot say too much and nor would
he want me to. I could talk about his brilliance in his own field and the
worldwide respect and admiration he is held in amongst his peers. I could talk
about his meteoric rise from very humble beginnings to the very top of his
difficult trade, but that's not really what I remember about him most.
What I remember about him most was his gentleness, kindness, incredible
generosity and painful honesty. He was the best moral compass a young man could
have had, especially one with ambitions to join the police. I would be lying if
I said tempting opportunities didn't present themselves, but the thought of
letting not just myself but my parents down kept me well and truly on the
straight and narrow.
My dad taught me one thing above all others - that no matter how much we
achieve in our chosen professions, no matter how much wealth and power we
obtain - what is really important is to be a good man. Just be a good man. He
was a very good man.
Sadly Mike passed away three years ago aged a very young seventy-two. Another
victim to the great taker of men - cancer. The world has felt a poorer place
ever since. He is much missed and much loved.
For Mike.
1
Saturday. I agreed to come to the park with the wife and children. They're over
there on the grassy hill, just along from the pond. They've fed themselves, fed
the ducks and now they're feeding their own belief that we're one normal happy
family. And to be fair, as far as they're concerned, we are. I won't let the
sight of them spoil my day. The sun is shining and I'm getting a bit of a tan.
The memory of the latest visit is still fresh and satisfying. It keeps the
smile on my face.
Look at all these people. Happy and relaxed. They've no idea I'm watching them.
Watching as small children wander away from their mothers too distracted by
idle chat to notice. Then they realize their little darling has wandered too
far and up goes that shrill shriek of an over-protective parent, followed by a
leg slap for the child and more shrieking.
I am satisfied for the time being. The fun I had last week will keep me
contented for a while, so everyone is safe today.
I thoroughly enjoyed the time I spent with the little queer. I made it look
like a domestic murder. I've heard fights between people like him can get
nasty, so I had a bit of fun with the idea.
He was easy enough to dispatch. These people live dangerous lives. They make
perfect victims. So I hunted amongst them, looking for someone, and I found him.
I had already decided to spend the evening stalking the patrons of a Vauxhall
nightclub, Utopia. What a ridiculous name. More like Hell, if you ask me. I
told my wife I was out of town on business, packed some spare clothes,
toiletries, the usual things for a night away and booked a hotel room in
Victoria. I could hardly turn up at home in the early hours. That would arouse
suspicions. I couldn't have that. Everything at home needed to appear ...
normal.
I also packed a paper decorating suit that I bought at Homebase, several pairs
of surgical gloves [?] readily available from all sorts of shops [?] a shower
cap and some plastic bags to cover my feet. A little noisy, but effective. And
last but not least a syringe. All fitted neatly into a small rucksack.
Avoiding the CCTV cameras that swamped the area, I watched the entrance to the
club from the shadows of the railway bridge as the sound of the trains
reverberated through the archways.
I had already spied my target entering the club earlier that evening. The
excitement made my testicles tighten. Yes, he was truly worthy of my special
attentions. This wasn't the first time I had seen him. I had watched him a
couple of weeks earlier, watched him whore himself inside the club with whoever
could match his price. I had been searching for the perfect victim, knowing the
police would only check CCTV from the night he died or, if they were especially
diligent, maybe the week before.
I had stood in the midst of the heaving throng of stinking, foul humanity,
bodies brushing past my own, tainting my being with their diseased
imperfection, while at the same time inflaming my already excited, heightened
senses. I so wanted to reach out and take each and every one of them by the
throat, crushing trachea after trachea as the dead began to pile at my feet. I
fought hard to control the surging strength within, then terror gripped me,
terror like I have never felt in my entire life. Terror that the real me was
revealing itself, that all those around me could see me changing in front of
their very eyes, my skin glowing brilliant red, bright white light spilling
from my eyes and ears, vomiting from my mouth. Heavy drops of sweat had snaked
down my back, guided by my swelling, cramping back muscles. Somehow I had
managed to move my legs, pushing through a crowd of squabbling worshippers
until I reached the bar and stared into the giant mirror hanging behind it.
Relief washed over me, slowing my heart and cooling my sweat as I could see I
hadn't changed, hadn't betrayed myself.
Now the time for watching was over. It was time for my prize, my release, my
relief. All was in place. All was as it needed to be. At last I saw him leaving
the club. He was shouting goodbyes, but seemed to be alone. He walked casually
under the railway bridge, heading towards Vauxhall Bridge. I moved quickly and
silently to the other side of the railway bridge and waited for him. As he
neared, I stepped out. He saw me, but didn't look scared. He returned my smile
as I spoke to him.
'Excuse me.'
'Yes,' he replied, still smiling, stepping closer to the street light to better
see me. 'Is there something I can do for ... you,' he said, recognition
spreading across his face. 'We really must stop meeting like this.' Yes, I'd
been with him before. A risk, but a calculated one. A little more than a week
ago, inside the nightclub, I'd introduced myself without speaking, making sure
he saw my smiling face just long enough so he'd recognize it again. Later I met
him outside. I paid him what he asked, all in advance, and we went back to his
flat where I defiled myself inside him and even allowed him to defile the
inside of me. The sex wasn't important, or even pleasurable - that wasn't the
point of being with him. I wanted to feel him while he was alive, to understand
he wasn't merely an inanimate thing, but a real live person. I couldn't be with
him like that the night I dispatched him in case I left the faintest trace of
semen or saliva on his body. Being with him a week or so before would give any
such evidence time to degrade and die. And of course we practised safe sex: he
to protect himself from the Gay Plague and I to protect myself from detection.
I'd shaved away my pubic hair and wore a full-faced rubber mask that also
covered my head, stopping any head hairs from being left at the scene, as well
as rubber gloves to eliminate the risk of leaving fingerprints - all of which
the little queer thought was simply part of the fun. But the fun, the real fun,
was yet to come and I had more than a week to fantasise about events that lay
ahead.
The days had passed painfully slowly, testing my patience and control to the
limit, but the memories of the night I had been with him and the thought of
things to come carried me through and before I knew it he was standing in front
of me, his small, straight white teeth glistening in the street lights, his
oval-shaped head too large for his scrawny neck, perched on slim, narrow
shoulders. His hair was blond and straight, shoulder-length, styled to make him
look like a surfer, but his skin was pale and his body weak. The most athletic
thing he had ever done was drop to his knees. His T-shirt was too tight and
short, revealing his flat stomach, disappearing into hipster designer jeans
worn to provoke the sexual urges of his peers.
I told him I needed to be with him again. I lied that I had been inside the
club and had seen him dancing, that I had been too nervous to approach him
then, but now I really wanted him. We talked some more crap then he said, 'You
know I'm not cheap. If you want to be with me again it'll cost.'
He suggested we go to my place so I told him my boyfriend would be there, but
he started rambling on about not taking people back to his flat and how last
time had been an exception, until I pulled another two fifties from my wallet
and thrust them into his hand. He smiled.
We went to my car, fixed with false plates, and drove to his shit-hole in
south-east London where I was sure not to park too close to his block. Telling
him I didn't want to take the risk of being seen walking to his flat with him,
I suggested that he go ahead and leave the door unlocked.
I waited a couple of minutes, then, as the street was empty, no one staring
from windows, I walked to the flat. The block was old, cold and smelled of
piss, but he had been a good boy and left the door unlocked. I quietly entered
and flicked the lock on. He appeared around the corner at the end of the
corridor, from what I knew was the living room. He spoke.
'Was that you locking the door?'
'Yes,' I replied. 'Can't be too careful these days.'
'Afraid someone's going to burst in on us and spoil the party?'
'Something like that.'
The excitement was unbearable. My stomach was so cramped with anticipation I
could hardly breathe. Inside, my mind was screaming, but I was still wearing my
nervous smile as I walked into the living room.
The whore was crouched by his CD player. I told him I wanted to clean up a
little and headed for the bathroom down the hallway.
I took my bag with me and quickly, if somewhat awkwardly, pulled on the suit,
the shower cap, rubber gloves and finally the plastic bags over my shoes. I
looked in the mirror, filling my lungs with air drawn in hard through my nose.
I was ready.
Fully prepared, I returned to the living room. He turned and saw me dressed and
resplendent. He'd already removed his T-shirt, and he started to giggle,
covering his mouth as if to stop himself.
He spoke to me. 'Is this how we're going to get our kicks tonight then?'
'Sort of,' I replied. 'Sort of.'
They were the last words he spoke, although he may have said 'please' a little
later. By then the blood bubbling up into his mouth made it just a gargle.
With a smooth, swift, practised hand I grabbed an iron statue of a naked Indian
he kept on his side table and I used it to smash his skull, not hitting him
hard enough to kill him straight away, merely to render him semi-conscious and
virtually paralysed. He had been on his knees when I hit him, which was good
[?] less distance to fall meant less noise when he hit the floor.
I watched him for a while, standing over him like the victor in a prizefight,
watching his chest rise and fall with each painful, strained breath, the blood
initially spurting from the wound in his head, then slowing to a steady flow as
his heart grew too weak to pump it at the pressure his body required to stay
alive. Every few seconds his right leg would twitch like a dying bird.
It wouldn't have been as I had dreamed if he hadn't been at least partly
conscious when I went to him with an ice pick I found in his drinks cabinet. I
needed him to be alive as I cut him. I needed to see him try to stop me each
time I pushed the ice pick into his dying body: not stabbing frenziedly, but
placing it deliberately against his pale skin before pushing the point through
with a deliciously satisfying popping sound. Now and then he would reach up and
pitifully try to defend himself from the torture. I told him not to be a
naughty boy and continued with my work. It was a shame his brain haemorrhaging
had caused his eyes to turn red, as I had wanted to contrast his blue eyes
against the pale bloodied skin. Next time I'd do better.
His perforated body almost began to disgust me, to make me want to flee from
the scene, but I couldn't stop yet. Not until all was as close as it could be
to how I had seen it in my mind the first time I knew I would be visiting him.
I would continue with my work, despite the foul stench emanating from the holes
in his stomach and intestines, the urine and excreta that were now leaking from
his transformed body.
He held on for forty minutes, his eyes flickering slightly open for a few
minutes at a time. When they were open I did my work, stopping whenever he
passed out, unable to bear the pain or grasp his situation. I had to punch him
in the face every so often to stop him calling out. Not that he could have
realistically raised more than a whimper. Still, I had to be sure.
When he finally died, a slow, quiet hiss of air escaping from his lips and the
breaches in his chest wall told me that my fun had come to an end. I put on a
clean pair of surgical gloves and took the three hundred pounds cash I had
given him earlier from his trouser pocket. I really didn't want to leave that
behind. I carefully and quietly broke apart some furniture and generally
arranged the room as if a violent struggle had occurred. Next I used the
syringe I'd brought to draw blood from his mouth and sprayed it about the room:
on the walls, over the furniture, the carpet, making spray patterns to suggest
a violent struggle had taken place. Then I moved to the corner of the room I
had left clean. I removed my clothes and put them inside a plastic bag and put
that bag inside another plastic bag and repeated this twice more. I ensured
each plastic bag was tied securely and finally put them in my rucksack. I put
new plastic bags on my feet, not wanting to take the chance that I might step
on a spot of blood - that sort of evidence can be difficult to explain. I put
on another clean pair of rubber surgical gloves and left the living room. I
would burn the lot in my garden the following evening, the safest way to
dispose of such incriminating items. To burn them in a public place risked
attracting attention, while burial would leave them at the mercy of inquisitive
animals.
I moved quietly to the front door. I took the plastic bags off my shoes and
looked through the spyhole. Nobody about. Just to be sure, I listened at the
door, careful not to let my ear press against it and possibly leave a mark like
a fingerprint, which I hear can happen.
When I was totally happy I slipped out of the flat, leaving the front door open
so as not to make any more noise than necessary. The statue of the Indian and
the ice pick I threw in the Thames as I headed north to my hotel. The thought
of the police wasting hours searching for weapons that wouldn't help their
investigation in the slightest pleased me.
When I reached my hotel I slipped in through the side door next to the bar,
only generally used as a fire exit. I knew it could open from the outside and
had no CCTV camera trained on it. I already had the key card for my room,
having checked in earlier that day. I took a long shower, keeping the water as
hot as I could bear, scrubbing skin, nails and hair vigorously with a nail
brush until my entire body felt like it had been burned by flames. I had
removed the plug cover to allow any items washed from my body to flow easily
into London's sewage system. After the shower I took a long steaming bath and
scrubbed myself again. Once dry, I lay naked on the bed and drank two bottles
of water, at peace now. Satisfied. Soon sleep came and I dreamed the same
beautiful dream over and over.
2
Thursday morning
It was 3 a.m. and Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan drove through the dreary
streets of New Cross, south-east London. He had been born and raised in nearby
Dulwich, and for as long as he could remember, these streets had been a
dangerous place. People could quickly become victims here, regardless of age,
sex or colour. Life had little value.
But these worries were for other people, not Sean. They were for the people who
had nine-to-five jobs in shops and offices. Those who arrived bleary-eyed to
work each morning, then scuttled home nervously every evening, only feeling
safe once they'd bolted themselves behind closed doors.
Sean didn't fear the streets, having dealt with the worst they could throw at
him. He was a detective inspector in charge of one of South London's Murder
Investigation Teams, dedicated to dealing with violent death. The killers
hunted their victims and Sean hunted them. He drove with the window down and
doors unlocked.
Less than an hour earlier he'd been asleep at home when Detective Sergeant Dave
Donnelly called. There'd been a murder. A bad one. A young man beaten and
stabbed to death in his own flat. One minute Sean was lying by his wife's side,
the next he was driving to the place where a young man's life had been torn
away.
He found the address without difficulty. The streets around the murder scene
were eerily quiet. He was pleased to see the uniformed officers had done their
job properly and taped off a large cordon around the block the flat was in.
He'd been to scenes before where the cordon started and stopped at the front
door. How much evidence had been carried away from scenes on the soles of
shoes? He didn't want to think about it.
There were two marked patrol cars alongside Donnelly's unmarked Ford. He always
laughed at the murder scenes on television, with dozens of police cars parked
outside, all with blue lights swirling away. Inside, dozens of detectives and
forensic guys would be falling over each other. Reality was different. Entirely
different.
Real crime scenes were all the more disturbing for their quietness [?] the
violent death of the victim would leave the atmosphere shattered and
brutalised. Sean could feel the horror closing in around him as he examined a
scene. It was his job to discover the details of death and over time he had
grown hardened to it, but not immune. He knew that this scene would be no
different.
He parked outside the taped-off cordon and climbed from the isolation of his
car into the warm loneliness of the night, the stars of the clear sky and the
street lights removing all illusion of darkness. If he had been anyone else,
doing any other job, he might have noticed how beautiful it was, but such
thoughts had no place here. He flashed his warrant card to the approaching
uniformed officer and grunted his name. 'DI Sean Corrigan, Serious Crime Group
South. Where's this flat?'
The uniformed officer was young. He seemed afraid of Sean. He must be new if a
mere detective inspector scared him. 'Number sixteen Tabard House, sir. It's on
the second floor, up the stairs and turn right. Or you could take the lift.'
'Thanks.'
Sean opened the boot of his car and cast a quick glance over the contents
squeezed inside. Two large square plastic bins contained all he would need for
an initial scene examination. Paper suits and slippers. Various sizes of
plastic exhibit bags, paper bags for clothing, half a dozen boxes of plastic
gloves, rolls of sticky labels and of course a sledgehammer, a crowbar and
other tools. The boot of Sean's car would be mirrored by detectives' cars
across the world.
He pulled on a forensic containment suit and headed towards the stairwell. The
block was of a type common to this area of London. Low-rise tenement blocks
made from dark, oppressive, brown-grey brick which had been thrown up after the
Second World War to house those bombed out of old slum areas. In their time
they'd been a revelation [?] indoor toilets, running water, heating [?] but now
only those trapped in poverty lived in them. They looked like prisons, and in a
way that's what they were.
The stairwell smelled of urine. The stench of humanity living on top of each
other was unmistakable. This was summer and the vents of the flats pumped out
the smells from within. Sean almost gagged on it, the sight, sound and smell of
the tenement block reminding him all too vividly of his own childhood, living
in a three-bedroom, council owned maisonette with his mother, two brothers, two
sisters and his father - his father who would lead him away from the others,
taking him to the upstairs bedroom where things would happen. His mother too
frightened to intervene - thoughts of reaching for a knife in the kitchen
drawer swirling in her head, but fading away as her courage deserted her. But
the curse of his childhood had left him a rare and dark insightfulness - an
ability to understand the motivation of those he hunted.
All too often the abused become the abusers as the darkness overtakes them,
evil begetting evil - a terrible cycle of violence, virtually impossible to
break - and so the demons of Sean's past were too deeply assimilated in his
being to ever be rid of. But Sean was different in that he could control his
demons and his rage, using his shattered upbringing to allow him insights that
other cops could only dream of into the crimes he investigated. He understood
the killers, rapists and arsonists - understood why they had to do what they
did, could interpret their motivation - see what they had seen, smell what they
had smelt, feel what they had felt - their excitement, power, lust, revulsion,
guilt, regret, fear. He could make leaps in investigations others struggled to
understand, filling in the blanks with his unique imagination. Crime scenes
came alive in his mind's eye, playing in his head like a movie. He was no
psychic or clairvoyant, he was just a cop - but a cop with a broken past and
dangerous future, his skill at reading the ones he hunted born of his own dark,
haunted past. Where better for a failed disciple of true evil to hide than
amongst cops? Where better to turn his unique tools to good use than the
police? He swallowed the bile rising in his throat and headed for the crime
scene - the murder scene.
Sean stopped briefly to acknowledge another uniformed officer posted at the
front door of the flat. The constable lifted the tape across the door and
watched him duck inside. He looked down the corridor of the flat. It was bigger
than it had seemed from the outside. Detective Sergeant Donnelly waited for
him, his large frame filling the doorway, his moustache all but concealing the
movement of his lips as he talked. Dave Donnelly, twenty-year plus veteran of
the Metropolitan Police and very much Sean's old school right-hand man. His
anchor to the logical and practical course of an investigation and part-time
crutch to lean on. They'd had their run-ins and disagreements, but they
understood each other [?] they trusted each other.
'Morning, guv'nor. Stick to the right of the hallway here. That's the route
I've been taking in and out,' Donnelly growled in his strange accent, a mix of
Glaswegian and Cockney, his moustache twitching as he spoke.
'What we got?' Sean asked matter-of-factly.
'No sign of forced entry. Security is good in the flat, so he probably let the
killer in. All the damage to the victim seems to have been done in the living
room. A real fucking mess in there. No signs of disturbance anywhere else. The
living room is the last door on the right down the corridor. Other than that
we've got a kitchen, two bedrooms, a separate bathroom and toilet. From what
I've seen, the victim kept things reasonably clean and tidy. Decent taste in
furniture. There's a few photies of the victim around the place [?] as best I
can tell, anyway. His injuries make it a wee bit difficult to be absolutely
sure. There's plenty of them with him, shall we say, embracing other men.'
'Gay?' Sean asked.
'Looks that way. It's early days, but there's definitely some decent hi-fi and
TV stuff around the place, and I notice several of the photies have our boy in
far-flung corners of the world. Must have cost a few pennies. We're not dealing
with a complete loser here. He had a decent enough job, or he was a decent
enough villain, although I don't get the feel this is a villain's home.' Both
men craned their heads around the hallway area, as if to confirm Donnelly's
assessment so far. He continued: 'And I've found a few letters all addressed to
a Daniel Graydon. Nothing for anyone else.'
'Well, Daniel Graydon,' Sean asked, 'what the hell happened to you? And why?'
'Shall we?' With an outstretched hand pointing along the corridor, Donnelly
invited Sean to continue.
They moved from room to room, leaving the living room to the end. They trod
carefully, moving around the edges so as not to disturb any invisible footprint
indentations left in the carpets or minute but vital evidence: a strand of
hair, a tiny drop of blood. Occasionally Sean would take a photograph with his
small digital camera. He would keep the photographs for his personal use only,
to remind him of details he had seen, but also to put himself back at the scene
any time he needed to sense it again, to smell the odour of blood, to taste the
sickly sweet flavour of death. To feel the killer's presence. He wished he
could be alone in the flat, without the distraction of having to talk to anyone
- to explain what he was seeing and feeling. It had been the same ever since he
was a young cop, his ability to step into the shoes of the offender, be it a
residential burglary or murder. But only the more alarming scenes seemed to
trigger this reaction. Walking around scenes of domestic murders or gangland
stabbings he saw more than most other detectives, but felt no more than they
did. This scene already seemed different. He wished he was alone.
Sean felt uncomfortable in the flat. Like an intruder. As if he should be
constantly apologizing for being there. He shook off the feeling and mentally
absorbed everything. The cleanliness of the furniture and the floors. Were the
dishes washed and put away? Had any food been left out? Did anything, no matter
how small, seem somehow out of place? If the victim kept his clothing neatly
folded away, then a shirt on the floor would alert Sean's curiosity. If the
victim had lived in squalor, a freshly cleaned glass next to a sink full of
dirty dishes would attract his eye. Indeed, Sean had already noted something
amiss.
Sean and Donnelly came to the living room. The door was ajar, exactly how it
had been found by the young constable. Donnelly moved inside. Sean followed.
There was a strong smell of blood - a lot of blood. It was a metallic smell.
Like hot copper. Sean recalled the times he'd tasted his own blood. It always
made him think that it tasted exactly like it smelled. At least this man had
been killed recently. It was summer now - if the victim had been there for a
few days the flat would have reeked. Flies would have filled the room, maggots
infesting the body. He felt a jolt of guilt for being glad the man had just
been killed.
Sean crouched next to the body, careful to avoid stepping in the pool of thick
burgundy blood that had formed around the victim's head. He'd seen many murder
victims. Some had almost no wounds to speak of, others had terrible injuries.
This was a bad one. As bad as he'd seen.
'Jesus Christ. What the hell happened in this room?' Sean asked.
Donnelly looked around. The dining-room table was overturned. Two of the chairs
with it had been destroyed. The TV had been knocked from its stand. Pictures
lay smashed on the floor. CDs were strewn around the room. The lights from the
CD player blinked in green.
'Must have been a hell of a fight,' Donnelly said.
Sean stood up, unable to look away from the victim: a white male, about twenty
years old, naked from the waist up, wearing hipster jeans that were heavily
soaked in blood. One sock remained on his right foot, the other was nowhere to
be seen. He was lying on his back, the left leg bent under the right, with both
arms stretched out in a crucifix position. There were no restraints of any kind
in evidence. The left side of his face and head had been caved in. The victim's
light hair allowed Sean to see two serious head wounds indicating horrific
fractures to the skull. Both eyes were swollen almost completely shut and his
nose was smashed, with congealed blood clustered around it. The mouth hadn't
escaped punishment, the lips showing several deep cuts, with the jaw hanging
dislocated. Sean wondered how many teeth would be missing. The right ear was
nowhere to be seen. He hoped to God the man had died from the first blow to his
head, but he doubted it.
The pool of blood by the victim's head was the only heavy saturation area other
than his clothing. Elsewhere there were dozens of splash marks: on the walls,
furniture and carpet. Sean imagined the victim's head being whipped around by
the ferocity of the blows, the blood from his wounds travelling in a fine spray
through the air until it landed where it now remained. Once examined properly,
these splash marks should provide a useful map of how the attack had developed.
The victim's body had not been spared. Sean wasn't about to start counting, but
there must have been at least fifty to a hundred stab wounds. The legs,
abdomen, chest and arms had all been brutally attacked. Sean looked around for
weapons, but could see none. He returned his gaze to the shattered body, trying
to free his mind, to see what had happened to the young man now lying dead on
his own floor. For the most fleeting of moments he saw a figure hunched over
the dying man, something that resembled a screwdriver rather than a knife
gripped in his hand, but the image was gone as quickly as it arrived. Finally
he managed to look away and speak.
'Who found the body?'
'That would be us,' Donnelly replied.
'How so?'
'Well, us via a concerned neighbour.'
'Is the neighbour a suspect?'
'No, no,' Donnelly dismissed the idea. 'Some young bird from a few doors down,
on her way home with her kebab and chips after a night of shagging and
drinking.'
'Did she enter the flat?'
'No. She's not the hero type, by all accounts. She saw the door slightly open
and decided we ought to know about it. If she'd been sober, she probably
wouldn't have bothered.'
Sean nodded his agreement. Alcohol made some people conscientious citizens in
the same way it made others violent temporary psychopaths.
'Uniform sent a unit around to check it out and found our victim here,'
Donnelly added.
'Did he trample the scene?'
'No, he's a probationer straight out of Hendon and still scared enough to
remember what he's supposed to do. He kept to the edges, touched nothing.'
'Good,' Sean said automatically, his mind having already moved on, already
growing heavy with possibilities. 'Well, whoever did this is either very angry
or very ill.'
'No doubt about that,' Donnelly agreed.
There was a pause, both men taking the chance to breathe deeply and steady
themselves, clearing their minds, a necessary prelude before trying to think
coldly and logically. Seeing this brutality would never be easy, would never be
matter-of-fact.
'Okay. First guess is we're looking at a domestic murder.'
'A lover's tiff?' Donnelly asked.
Sean nodded. 'Whoever did this probably took a fair old beating themselves,' he
added. 'A man fighting for his life can do a lot of damage.'
'I'll check the local hospitals,' Donnelly volunteered. 'See if anyone who
looks like they've been in a real ding-dong has been admitted.'
'Check with the local police stations for the same and wake the rest of the
team up. Let's get everyone together at the station for an eight a.m. briefing.
And we might as well see if we can get a pathologist to examine the body while
it's still in place.'
'That won't be easy, guv.'
'I know, but try. See if Dr Canning is available. He sometimes comes out if
it's a good one, and he's the best.'
'I'll do what I can, but no promises.'
Sean surveyed the scene. Most murders didn't take long to solve. The most
obvious suspect was usually the right suspect. The panicked nature of the crime
provided an Aladdin's cave of forensic evidence. Enough to get a conviction. In
cases like this, detectives often had to do little more than wait for the
laboratory to examine the exhibits from the scene and provide all the answers.
But as Sean looked around something was already niggling away at his instincts.
Donnelly spoke again. 'Seems straightforward?'
'Yeah, I'm pretty happy.' He let the statement linger.
'But ...?'
'The victim almost certainly knew his killer. No forced entry, so he's let him
in. A boyfriend is a fair bet. This smells like a domestic murder. A few too
many drinks. A heated argument. A fight kicks off and gets nastier and nastier,
both end up beaten to a pulp and one dies. A crime of passion which the killer
had no time to prepare. He's lost it for a while, killed a friend. A lover. Now
all he wants to do is run. Get away from this flat and be somewhere safe to
think out his next move. But there's a couple of things missing for me.'
'Such as?'
'They've probably been having a drink, but there are no glasses anywhere. Can
you remember dealing with a domestic murder where alcohol wasn't involved?'
'Maybe he cleaned the place up a bit?' Donnelly offered. 'Washed the glasses
and put them away.'
'Why would he bother cleaning a glass when his blood and fingerprints must be
all over the place after a struggle like this?'
'Panic?' Donnelly suggested. 'Wasn't thinking straight. He cleaned up his
glass, maybe started to clean up other stuff too before he realized he was
wasting his time.'
'Maybe.'
Sean was thinking hard. The lack of signs of alcohol was a small point, but any
experienced detective would have expected to find evidence of its use at a
scene like this. An empty bottle of cider. A half-empty bottle of Scotch, or a
champagne bottle to fuel the rage of the rich. But it was the image he was
beginning to visualize that was plaguing him with doubt - the image his mind
was piecing together using evidence that was missing as much as evidence that
was present. The image of a figure crouching very deliberately over the victim.
No frenzy, no rage, but evil in a human form.
'There's something else,' he told Donnelly. 'The killing obviously took place
in the living room. We know he must have gone out the front door because
everything else is locked up nice and tight. But the hallway is clean. Nothing.
The carpet is light beige, yet there's no sign of a bloody footprint. And the
door handle? Nothing. No blood. Nothing.
'So our killer beats and stabs the victim to death in a frenzied moment of rage
and yet stops to clean his hands before opening any doors. After killing a man
who may have been his lover, he's suddenly calm enough to take his shoes off
and tiptoe out the place. That doesn't make a lot of sense.'
Donnelly joined in. 'And if our boy did stop to clean himself up before
leaving, then where did he get clean? He had two choices. The sink in the
bathroom or the sink in the kitchen.'
Sean continued for him. 'We've seen both of them. Clean as a whistle. No signs
of recent use. Not even a splash of water.'
'Aye,' Donnelly said. 'But it's probably nothing. We're assuming too much.
Maybe forensics will prove us wrong and find some blood in the hallway we can't
see.'
Sean wasn't convinced, but before he could reply the uniformed constable at the
front door called into the flat. 'Excuse me, sir, your lab team is here.'
Sean shouted a reply. 'Coming out.'
He and Donnelly walked from the flat carefully, keeping to the route they'd
used on entering. They walked to the edge of the taped-off cordon where they
knew Detective Sergeant Andy Roddis would be waiting with his team of specially
trained detectives and scene examiners.
DS Roddis saw Sean and Donnelly approach. He observed their forensics suits but
was not impressed. 'I take it you two have already been trampling all over my
scene.' He was right to be annoyed. The book said no one into the house except
the scene examination team. 'Next time I'm going to seize your clothing as
exhibits.'
Sean needed Roddis on his side.
'Sorry, Andy,' he said. 'We haven't touched a thing. Promise.'
'I hear you have a dead male for me in flat number sixteen. Yes?' Roddis still
sounded irritated.
'I'm afraid so,' said Donnelly.
Roddis turned to Sean. 'Anything special you want from us?'
'No. Our money's on a domestic, so stick to the basics. You can keep the
expensive toys locked away.'
'Very well,' Roddis replied. 'Blood, fibres, prints, hair and semen it is.'
Donnelly and Sean were already walking away. Sean called over his shoulder.
'I'm briefing my team at eight a.m. Try and get me a preliminary report before
then.'
'I might be able to phone something through to you. Will that do?'
'Fine,' said Sean. Right now he would take anything on offer.
It was shortly before 8 a.m. and Sean sat alone in his bleak, functional office
in Peckham police station, surrounded by the same cheap wooden furniture that
adorned each and every police building across London. The office was just about
big enough to house two four-foot battered oblong desks and two uncomfortable
chairs for the frequent visitors. Two ancient-looking computers sat one on each
desk and the harsh fluorescent lights above painted everything a dull yellow.
How he envied those TV detectives with their swivel leather chairs, banks of
all-seeing all-dancing computers, and most of all the Jasper Conran reading
lamps slung low over shining glass desks. Reality was mundane and functional.
Sean thought about the victim. What sort of person had he been? Was he loved?
Would he be missed? He would find out soon enough. The phone rang and made him
jump.
'DI Corrigan.' He rarely wasted words on the phone. Years of speaking into
radios had trimmed his speech.
'Mr Corrigan, it's DS Roddis. You wanted an update for your briefing?' Roddis
didn't recognize any ranks above his own, but his powerful position meant he
was never challenged by his seniors. He decided the forensic resources assigned
to each case, and it was he who knew the right people at the right laboratories
across the south-east who could get the job done. Everybody, regardless of
rank, respected his monopoly.
'Thanks for calling. What you got for me?'
'Well, it's early days.'
Sean knew the lab team would have done little more than get organized. 'I
appreciate that, but I'd like whatever you've got.'
'Very well. We've had a cursory look around. The entry and exit point is
surprisingly clean, given the nature of the attack. And the hallway was clean
too. Perhaps we'll find something when we get better lighting and some UV
lamps. Other than that, nothing definite yet. The blood spray marks on the
walls and furniture have me a little confused.'
'Confused?' Sean asked.
'Having seen the victim's wounds, I'm pretty sure the blow to the head all but
killed him and it certainly knocked him down. I have a blood spray pattern on a
wall that would be consistent with a blow to his head with a heavy object.'
'So what's the problem?'
'If the victim was prostrate when the other injuries were inflicted then I
would only expect to find small, localized sprays, but I've got numerous
others, over the carpet, broken furniture, up the walls. They're not consistent
with his wounds.'
'Then he must have other wounds we haven't seen yet,' Sean suggested. 'Or maybe
the blood is from the attacker?'
'Possibly.' Roddis sounded unconvinced. 'No obvious murder weapon yet,' he
continued, 'but it will probably turn up when we get into the search properly.'
'Anything else?' Sean asked, in hope more than expectation.
'There are plenty of corres: address books, diaries, bank books and so on. It
shouldn't be too hard to confirm the victim's identity. That's it so far.'
Sean may not have particularly liked Roddis, but he valued his professionalism.
'Thanks. It'll be a help in the briefing. Might keep the team awake.' He hung
up.
Reclining in his chair, Sean stared at the lukewarm cup of coffee on his desk.
What would it mean if the splash patterns didn't match the wounds on the
victim? Had the killer been badly injured himself and the blood sprays came
from his wounds? He doubted it, especially if Roddis was right about the victim
being all but taken out with the first blow to the head. And if he was knocked
down with the first blow, then what the hell were the other injuries about? The
answers would come, he reassured himself. Wait for the full forensic
examination of the scene, the post-mortem of the victim. The answers would
come. They always did.
He stood and looked out of his window down at the station car park. He saw DS
Sally Jones outside furiously smoking a cigarette, laughing and joking with a
couple of girls from the typing pool.
He watched her, admiring her. A five-foot-three bundle of energy. Her slender
athletic legs contrasted with her slightly stocky, masculine upper-body. He
tried to remember if he had seen her fair hair not tied back in a ponytail.
He loved her ability to connect with people. She could talk to anyone and make
them feel that she was their best friend in the world, and so Sean sometimes
used her to do the things he would find impossible to do well. Speaking with
grieving parents. Telling a husband his wife had been raped and murdered in
their own home. Sean had watched in awe as Sally told people unthinkable things
and then half an hour later she would be laughing and joking, puffing on a
cigarette, chatting with whoever was close enough. She was tough. Tougher than
he would ever be. He smiled as he watched her.
Sean wondered why she was still alone. He couldn't imagine doing this job and
then going home to an empty house. Sally told him she was clearly too much for
any man to handle. He had often tried to sense some sorrow in her. Some
loneliness. He never could.
He checked the time. She was going to be late for the briefing. He could call
out the window and warn her, but he decided it would be more fun to leave it.
He walked the short distance along the busy, brightly lit corridor: doors on
both sides; old and new posters pinned and stuck to the walls, uniformly
ignored by passers-by all too single-mindedly trying to get to wherever they
were going to stop and take notice of someone else's appeals for assistance. He
reached the briefing room and entered. His team continued to chatter away
amongst themselves. A couple of them, including Donnelly, mouthed a greeting.
He nodded back.
The team was relatively small. Two detective sergeants [?] Sally and Donnelly
[?] and ten detective constables. Sean sat in his usual chair at the head of a
rectangular wooden table, the cheapest money could buy. He dropped his mobile
phone and notebook in front of him and looked around [?] making sure everyone
was there. He nodded to Donnelly, who understood the cue. They'd been working
with each other long enough to be able to communicate without the need for
words.
'All right, people, listen up. The guv'nor wants to speak and we've got a lot
to get through, so let's park our arses and crack on.' The murmuring faded as
the team began to sit and concentrate on Sean.
Detective Constable Zukov spoke. 'D'you want me to grab DS Jones, boss? I think
she's having a smoke in the yard.'
'No. Don't bother,' Sean told him. 'She'll be here soon enough.'
The room fell silent, Sean looking at Donnelly with a slight grin on his face.
They both turned to the briefing room door just as DS Sally Jones came bursting
in. There was a low hum of stifled laughter.
'Shit. Sorry I'm late, guv.' The hum of low laughter grew. Sally swatted one of
the constables across the head as she walked past. He threw his hands up in
protest. 'I told you to come and get me, Paulo.' The constable didn't answer,
but the smile on his face said everything.
Sean joined in. 'Afternoon, Sally. Thanks for joining us.'
'It's a pleasure, sir.'
'As I'm sure you've all worked out, we've picked up another murder.' Some of
the team groaned.
Sally spoke up. 'We're only in summer and already we've had sixteen murders on
this team alone. Eight still need preparing for court. Who's going to put those
court presentations together if we're constantly being dumped on?' There was a
rumble of approval around the room.
'No point moaning,' Sean told them. 'All the other teams are just as busy as we
are, so we get this one. As you're all no doubt aware, we don't have a live
investigation running so we're the obvious choice.'
Sean was prepared for the grumblings. Police officers always grumbled. They
were either moaning about being too busy or they were moaning about not earning
enough overtime. It was a fact of life with police.
He continued. 'Okay, this is the job. What we know so far is our victim was
beaten and stabbed to death. At this time we believe the victim is Daniel
Graydon, the occupier of the flat where we're pretty certain the crime took
place. But his facial injuries are severe, so visual identification has yet to
be confirmed. We are treating the flat as our primary crime scene. Dave and I
have already had a look around and it's not pretty. The victim would appear to
have been hit on the head with a heavy object and that may well have been the
critical injury, although we'll have to wait for the autopsy to confirm that.
The stab wounds are numerous and spread across a wide area. This was a vicious,
brutal attack.
'It is suspected the victim may be gay, and the early theory is that it was
probably a domestic. If that's the case, then the killer himself could be hurt.
We're already checking the hospitals and custody suites on the off chance he
was picked up for something else after fleeing the scene. I don't want this to
get complicated, so let's keep it simple. A nice, neat, join-the-dots
investigation will do me fine.'
Sean looked towards Sally.
'Sally, I want you to pick four guys and start on door-to-door immediately.
That time of night, beaten to death, someone must have heard or seen something.
The rest of you, hang fire. The lab team is looking at the victim's personal
stuff, so we'll have a long list of people to trace and chat with soon enough.
I don't expect it to be long before we have a decent idea who our prime suspect
is.
'Dave. You go office manager on this one.' Donnelly nodded acknowledgement.
'The rest of you check with Dave at least three times a day for your
assignments. And remember,' Sean added, 'the first few hours are the most
important, so let's eat on the hoof and worry about sleep when the killer's
banged up downstairs.'
There were nods of approval as the group began to break up. Sean could sense
their optimism, their trust in his leadership, his judgement. He hadn't failed
them yet.
He prayed this case would be no different.
It was almost 1 p.m. and Sean had spent the morning on the phone. He'd told the
same story a dozen times. To his superintendent, the Intelligence Unit, the Gay
and Lesbian liaison officer, the local uniformed duty officer, the Community
Safety Inspector. He was sick of telling. Sally and Donnelly had returned for
their meeting and sat in his office. Sally had brought coffee and sandwiches,
which Sean ate without tasting. It was the first thing he had eaten since the
phone call from Donnelly early that morning, so he was happy just to get
something into his stomach.
Between bites they talked, all of them aware they hadn't a moment to waste on a
proper lunch. The first days of a murder inquiry were always the same - so much
to get through and so little time. Forensic evidence degraded, witnesses'
memories faded, CCTV tapes would be recorded over. Time was Sean's enemy now.
'Anything from the door-to-door, Sally?' he asked. 'Give me good news only.'
'Nothing,' she replied. 'I've still got guys down there knocking on doors, but
so far all we're being told is that Graydon kept himself to himself. No noisy
parties. No fights. No problems. No nothing. Everybody says he was a nice kid.
As for last night, nobody saw or heard a thing. Another quiet night in South
London.'
'That can't be right,' Sean argued. 'A man gets beaten to death within a few
feet of what, four other flats, and no one heard it?'
'That's what we're being told.'
Sean sighed and turned towards Donnelly. 'Dave?'
'Aye. We've managed to make copies of his diary, address book and what have
you. I've got a couple of the lads going through that now. Expect to be
informed about next of kin pretty soon. No boyfriend yet, though. No one name
coming up over and over. I'll be sending the troops out to trace friends and
associates as and when we have their details. Oh, and the Coroner's Officer has
been on the blower. The body's been moved from the scene and taken to Guy's
Hospital. Post-mortem's at four p.m. today.'
Sean's mind flashed with the images of previous post-mortems he'd attended as
he pushed what was left of his sandwiches to one side.
'Who's doing it?'
'You've got your wish there, boss. It's Dr Canning. Anything more from the
forensics team at the scene?'
'Not yet. Roddis doesn't reckon they'll be finished until about this time
tomorrow, then as usual everything gets sent to the lab and we wait.'
A young detective from Sean's team appeared at the door holding a small piece
of paper pinched between his fingers. 'I think I've found an address for the
parents.' The three detectives continued to look at him.
'I'll take that, thanks,' Sally told him. The young detective handed her the
note and backed away from the door.
Sean knew his responsibilities. 'I'll come too. Shit, this is gonna be fun.
Dave, I'll see you back here at about three thirty. You can take me to the
post-mortem.'
'I'll be here,' Donnelly assured him.
Sean tugged his jacket on and headed for the door, Sally in pursuit. 'And
remember,' he told Donnelly, 'if anyone asks, this is a straightforward
domestic murder. No need to get anyone excited.'
'Having doubts?' Donnelly managed to ask before Sean was gone.
'No,' Sean answered, not entirely truthfully. For a second he was back in the
flat, back at the scene of the slaughter, watching the killer moving around
Graydon's prostrate form, but he saw no panic or fury in his actions, no
jealousy or rage, only a coldness - a sense of satisfaction.
Donnelly's voice snapped him back. 'You all right, guv'nor?'
'Sorry, yes I'm fine. Just find me the boyfriend - whoever he is. Find him and
you've found our prime suspect.'
'I'll do my best.'
'I know you will,' Sean told him as he watched him stride back into the main
office.
3
Late Thursday afternoon
Sean and Donnelly walked along the corridors of Guy's Hospital, heading for the
mortuary. They were accompanied by Detective Constable Sam Muir who would be
acting as exhibits officer - taking responsibility for any objects the
pathologist found on or in the body during the post-mortem. Sean wondered if he
would bump into his wife, Kate, one of the all too few doctors attending to the
never-ending flow of patients through the Accident and Emergency department -
the sick and injured from the surrounding areas of Southwark, Bermondsey and
beyond. Some of London's poorest and most forgotten, living in council flats
where violence and crime were seldom far away, yet all of their degradation and
suffering going unnoticed and unseen by the swarms of tourists wandering around
Tower Bridge and Tooley Street. If only they knew how close they were to some
of London's most dangerous territory.
His mind returned to the victim's parents. He and Sally had called at the small
terraced house in Putney. A desirable neighbourhood on the whole, but
boisterous on weekend evenings. Sally had done most of the talking.
Daniel had been their only child. The mother was devastated and didn't care who
saw her fall to the floor screaming. Her despair was a physical pain. When she
could speak, all she could say was the name of her son.
The father was stunned. He didn't know whether to help his wife or collapse
himself. He ended up doing neither. Sean took him into the living room. Sally
stayed with the mother.
They knew their son was gay. It had bothered the father at first, but he grew
to accept it. What else could he do other than push the boy away? And he would
never do that. He said his son worked as a nightclub manager. He wasn't sure
where, but Daniel had been doing well for himself and had no money problems,
unlike other young people.
He hadn't met any of his son's friends. Daniel hadn't kept in touch with his
old school friends. He came home quite often, almost every Sunday for lunch. If
he had a boyfriend then neither he nor his wife knew about it. Their son had
said he wasn't interested in anything like that. They hadn't pressed him.
The father had asked what they were to do now. His wife would be finished. She
lived for the boy, not him. He knew it and didn't mind [?] but with the boy
gone?
He wanted to know who would do this to his boy - who would do this to them?
Why? Sean had no answers.
As the three detectives entered the mortuary they could see Dr Simon Canning
preparing for the post-mortem. A body lay covered with a green sheet on what
Sean knew would be a cold, metal operating table. Water continually ran under
the body to an exit drain as the pathologist did his work, so that the whole
thing resembled a large, shallow, stainless-steel bathtub.
Some detectives could detach themselves from the ugly reality of post-mortems,
bury themselves in the science and art of the procedure. Unfortunately, Sean
was not one of those detectives. For days to come images of his own post-mortem
would blend with the memories of his shattered childhood. Meanwhile Dr Simon
Canning was busy arranging his tools - bright, shiny, metal instruments for
torturing the dead.
'Afternoon, detectives.'
'Doctor. Good to see you again,' Sean replied.
'I doubt that,' said the pathologist. Canning was pleasant enough, but
businesslike and succinct. 'I hope you don't mind, Inspector. I've started
without you. I was just having a bit of a clean up before continuing. Right
then, shall we get on with it?'
The doctor pulled back the sheet covering the body with one quick movement of
his arm. Sean almost expected him to say, 'Voila!' like a waiter lifting the
lid off a silver platter.
The hair on the back and side of the head was matted with blood [?] it looked
sticky. Sean could clearly see the gashes in the side of the head and the small
stab marks all over the naked body.
'Seventy-seven,' Canning told him.
Sean realized he was being spoken to. He glanced up at the doctor. 'Sorry?'
'Separate stab wounds. Seventy-seven in total. None in the back of the body.
All in the front. Made by some form of stiletto knife, or an ice pick, but it's
the first blow to the head that killed him. Eventually.'
Dr Canning pointed to the head wound. Sean forced himself to lean closer to the
body. 'One can see the ear is missing. Not cut off, but more a case of the
victim being hit so hard that whatever he was hit with crushed the skull and
still had enough energy to tear the ear away as the swing of the object carried
through.'
'Nice,' was all Sean said.
'And the victim was on his knees when the first blow was struck,' the doctor
continued. 'We can see the cut to the scalp is angled downwards, not upwards.
The killer swung low, not high.'
'Or he was hit from behind?' Sean offered.
'No,' Canning told him. 'He fell backwards, not forwards. Look at the stains
from the flow of blood. They run to the back of the head, not towards the face.'
He looked at the detectives, making sure they were concentrating on what he was
saying and not what they were seeing. He had their attention.
'But that's all straightforward. The interesting thing is the angle of the stab
wounds. Bearing in mind of course that our friend here has wounds from his
ankles to his throat, I can be almost positive the victim was already prostrate
on the floor when he was stabbed. That in itself isn't unusual.' The doctor
paused to catch his breath before continuing his lecture. 'The interesting bit
is this [?] most of the stab wounds are at the wrong angle of entry. You see?'
'I'm not quite with you, Doctor.'
'It's like this.' Canning looked around for a prop. He found a pair of
scissors. 'Firstly, I know the killer is probably right-handed. The angle of
the stab wounds tells me that, as does the fact the victim was hit on the left
side of his head. Now, imagine I'm the killer. The victim can play himself. In
order to stab somebody from head to toe, the killer would have to be at the
side of the body. Not on top, as you would first imagine. If he sat astride the
body then it would have been difficult to reach around and stab the thighs,
shins.' The doctor twisted his body back towards the victim's feet so as to
give a practical demonstration. His point was well made.
'Also, the entire body has puncture wounds. There isn't a large enough
unmolested area to suggest the killer was sitting astride the victim.'
'So the killer was kneeling on the side of the victim when he stabbed him. That
doesn't help me,' Sean told him.
Canning continued. 'What I'm saying is that the killer didn't crouch down next
to the victim and stab away as we would expect in most frenzied crimes of
passion. This killer moved around the body stabbing at different areas. There's
no doubt about it. It's as if the killer didn't want to be uncomfortable. He
didn't want to over-stretch, almost as if he was placing ritual stab wounds, or
something of that nature. It's a strange one.
'If you ask me, I'd say this was probably not a frenzied attack. These stab
wounds are deliberately placed. Controlled. The killer took his time.'
Sean felt a coldness grip his body and mind as he flashed back to the image
he'd had of the killer's careful, machine-like actions as he stabbed the victim
to death. He ran a hand slowly through his short brown hair. He could deny many
things, but he couldn't deny his instincts. His gut told him things were going
to become difficult. Complicated. The domestic theory was beginning to leak and
in all likelihood they weren't looking for a scared lover any more. There would
be no tearful suspect surrendering to custody because he couldn't deal with the
guilt. They were now after something else. Sean was sure of it. He exhaled
deeply, his mind swirling with questions.
'We need to get back to the office. Are you finished here, Doctor?'
'Almost. One last thing.' He pointed to the victim's wrists. 'It's very faint,
but it's there. On both wrists.'
Sean looked closely. He could see some discolouration of the victim's skin.
Thin bands of slightly darker tissue. Canning continued his analysis.
'They're old bruises. Probably caused by ligatures. He was tied with something.
I'll have a look under ultraviolet; that'll show up any other old injuries.
I'll check the entire body. All my findings will be in the final report.'
'Fine,' Sean said, the sense of urgency clear in his voice.
'Please, Inspector. Don't let me hold you up. I'll keep you informed.'
Donnelly spoke. 'D'you want me to sack looking for a boyfriend, boss?'
Sean shook his head. 'No. Let's check it out as a matter of course. The
boyfriend could still be the killer. Young Daniel here may have hooked up with
some freak and not even known it. No forced entry to the flat, remember?' Sean
said it, but he didn't believe it. Besides, if there was a boyfriend around, he
had a right to know about Daniel. They needed to find him anyway.
'We'd better get back and break the good news.'
'You gonna tell the superintendent about this, boss?' asked Donnelly.
'I don't have much choice.' He glanced at his watch. 'It's getting late. I
wouldn't want to spoil his night. Better to tell him tomorrow - after that it
looks like the circus will be coming to town. Just don't be one of the clowns.'
'And the rest of the team?'
'They've got more than enough to be getting on with for tonight. Sort out a
briefing for tomorrow morning. I'll put them in the picture then.'
Sean and Donnelly made for the exit. Sean needed the fresh air. They walked
through the swing doors and were gone.
4
If only you were capable of understanding the beauty and clarity of what I am
doing. You see, my very being is testament to Nature. To her mercilessness. Her
complete lack of compassion. Her violence. You have cast aside Nature's rules
and chosen to live by other laws. Morality. Restraint. Tolerance. I have not.
So here we stand, packed into this mechanical coffin, trundling under the
streets of London. They humorously call this one the misery line. Look at you.
None of you has the faintest idea of what I am. You look at me and see a
reflection of yourselves. That is my necessary disguise.
Come closer and I'll show you who I really am.
Damn, these trains can be unbearable in summer. All of us forced to breathe in
each other's filth. Six thirty in the evening [?] everybody trying to get home
to anaesthetise their brains with alcohol, cocaine, television, whatever.
Anything to black out the awfulness of their miserable, pointless lives. But
before they can indulge those little pleasures they have to suffer this final
torture.
I usually distract myself by picking a passenger at random and imagining what
it would be like to cut their eyes out and then slit their throat. The stench
of all these potential subjects is very stimulating to my imagination. Maybe I
could introduce myself to someone before going home to my dutiful wife and
well-behaved children? One day, when I work out how to get away with it, I'll
slit their throats too.
What about that passenger there? A nice-looking young lady. Well dressed,
attractive haircut, good figure. No engagement or wedding ring. Interesting.
Telltale signs like that give me all the information I need. The lack of rings
could mean she lives alone or with some girlfriends. I could follow her back to
her flat. Yes, I'm almost certain she lives in a flat. I'd pretend to be a
neighbour who has just moved in. We would walk through the communal entrance
together. I would be sure to jangle some keys so she wouldn't suspect foul
play. Then she might invite me in for a coffee: it's happened before. A quick
check to see if anyone else was in or expected soon and, if not, well then I
could have some fun with the pretty girl with the nice haircut.
Not tonight though. I must get home on time and be the good husband. Disguises
as successful as mine need a lot of maintaining. But I can't wait much longer.
Before the little queer it had been a couple of weeks since I visited anyone
and that was nothing but a quickie. A mere sketch. Some lawyer-type with a
briefcase. I made that one look like a robbery. Stabbed him twice through the
heart and remembered to take the cash from his wallet.
He looked surprised. I asked him the time and as his lips parted to speak I
stabbed him. I pulled the knife out of his chest, then stabbed him again. This
time I left the blade in and held on to it as he slumped to the ground. He had
the same look in his eyes as the others. More quizzical than afraid. He was
trying to speak. As if he wanted to ask me, 'Why?' Always people want to know
why. For money? For hate? For love? For sexual pleasure? No, not for any of
these petty motivations.
So I whispered the true reason why in his ear. It was the last thing he would
have heard. 'Because I have to.'
5
Friday morning
It was hot in the way only a giant metropolis can get. The heat mixed with the
fumes of four million cars, taxis and buses. It made the road warp.
It was Friday morning and Sean was late. He had a briefing to give at ten and
had wanted to be at work at least an hour and a half before that to prepare his
thoughts. Thanks to the traffic along the Old Kent Road and his three-year-old
daughter Mandy, who'd decided to throw a tantrum because of Sean's broken
promise to take her to Legoland, he would barely have time to read through his
incoming emails. He'd tried to read them on his iPhone as the traffic staggered
forward, but after almost driving into the back of the car in front of him for
the third time he'd thought better of it.
His team had been assigned initial tasks the previous day [?] now he hoped
those tasks had progressed the investigation. The briefing he would soon be
chairing was an opportunity for the team to tell him what they had discovered
so far. DS Roddis and his forensic crew had finished at the scene and he would
be present to detail their findings. Findings that could be critical to the
investigation.
He rang Sally to let her know he was running late.
'I'll be there within half an hour if this traffic starts moving. Briefing is
still at ten unless I call again.'
'Do you want everyone in the briefing room?' Sally asked.
'Er ... no,' Sean answered after a second's thought. 'We'll do it in our
incident room, there's more space.'
'No problem.' Sally had more to say and knew she would have to speak quickly or
Sean would already have hung up. 'Guv'nor ...'
He heard her just in time. 'What?'
'I thought you should know some wit's come up with a name for our killer.'
Sean knew he wasn't going to like this. 'Go on.'
'Some of the guys have christened him "The Fairy Liquidator".'
There was silence from Sean. He sat stony-faced, thinking about what the family
would say if they knew the police investigating their son's death were calling
the killer 'The Fairy Liquidator'.
After five seconds he spoke. 'Let them know in advance that from this second
onwards anyone using that name will be off the team, back in uniform and
directing traffic in Soho just as soon as they can get measured up for a new
helmet. Take this as a first and final warning, Sally.'
'I understand. I'll make sure it's not used again.'
'Good.' He hung up and continued his tortuous journey through the unbreathable
air. Before the murder of Daniel Graydon he'd planned to take the day off and
make it a long weekend with his family, doing normal things that a normal
family would do - the sort of things he never did as a child. More promises
made to his wife and children broken. His stomach tightened with the sense of
sadness that suddenly engulfed him - an almost panicked longing to be with his
family. He shook the feelings away as best he could, chasing them from body and
mind as if they were a weakness he couldn't afford to carry with him to his
work. Besides, there was nothing he could do about it. It was the nature of the
beast. It was his job.
Sean and his team were back in the open-plan office that was their incident
room and second home. Desks were scattered about, mainly in groups of four, and
most were adorned with old oversized computer screens and, if the owner was
lucky, a corded telephone. Murders in London were still being solved in spite
of the equipment available rather than because of it. Sean stared through the
Perspex into the room on the other side, watching the detectives: most
preferring to sit on the edges of their desks talking in groups, while others
moved with purpose, gathering last-minute stationery or squeezing in one final
phone call ahead of Sean's arrival.
The incident room was already changing as the investigation developed. Where
there had been blank whiteboards and bare walls the night before, now there
were photographs of the scene, the victim, the initial post-mortem results,
pinned up in no particular order. The name of the victim had been confirmed:
Daniel Graydon. It adorned a piece of white card and was stuck above the
photographs of his mutilated body and violated home. Sean noted they'd been put
up in one corner of a wall only. The rest of the wall had been left empty.
Clearly someone on his team believed there could be more photographs. More
victims.
The whiteboard listed tasks, 'actions' to be undertaken and which detective was
allocated to each. All were numbered and when complete a line would be drawn
through it, so if the investigation was failing the board would tell the tale.
It never lied. No progression meant fewer and fewer tasks to be placed on the
board, causing Sean's seniors to grow ever more anxious, more desperate and
more likely to interfere; but such concerns were for later. The first couple of
days would be busy enough just collecting and preserving evidence. The early
days were crucial. Evidence missed now could be lost for ever.
Sean walked the few steps from his office into the main body of the incident
room and waited for the detectives to become still and quiet [?] the noise
level fading as surely as if he'd turned the volume down on an amplifier. He
spoke: 'Right, people, before we get into this let's be clear that if anyone
uses the term "Fairy Liquidator" on this inquiry they're gone. Understood?'
Silent nods of agreement all around the room. 'Good. Now that nonsense is out
the way, we can get down to business.
'Firstly, you all need to know that in light of the autopsy I no longer believe
this is a domestic murder. Dr Canning tells me that the victim would have been
incapacitated with the first blow to the head, meaning there was no violent
struggle.'
'What about the broken furniture and the blood spray patterns suggesting a
fight?' Sally asked.
'Staged,' Sean told her. 'Cleverly staged, but staged all the same. He's trying
to throw us off the scent. The stab wounds have the appearance of some sort of
ritual killing, not a frenzied attack.
'Most of you know DS Andy Roddis here, the forensic team leader. Andy's kindly
given up his time to bring us all up to date on any findings from the scene.'
'That's very fucking nice of you, Andy,' Donnelly interjected, to the amusement
of his audience.
'All right, all right,' Sean hushed the room. 'I strongly suggest you pay
attention to what he's about to tell you.' He turned to DS Roddis, gesturing
with an open hand for him to begin. 'Andy.'
DS Roddis walked to the photographs of the scene pinned to the wall behind him.
'Thank you, sir.' He paced back and forth as he took up the story. 'Most of the
exhibits from the scene have been taken up to the forensic lab, so we won't
know the full picture until they've been examined. That'll take another few
days. Scientists don't work weekends, so we won't know much until Tuesday at
the earliest.' There was a small ripple of laughter in the room.
'In addition to staging the scene, we believe the suspect is forensically
aware. There were no obvious signs of semen, saliva or anything else that could
have come from the suspect.'
The team listened intently without interrupting. Roddis knew everything about
the scene there was to know and they knew nothing. This was the time to listen
and learn, not to question and disagree. That would come later, once they knew
what Roddis knew, but until then time to honour the ancient detective code:
keep your mouth shut and your eyes and ears open.
'There's a lot of blood, but I'm betting it all belongs to the victim. Initial
tests show it's the same blood type that matches the victim's. DNA confirmation
will take a few more days. We found several head hairs about the place, but
they also look like they came from the victim. The body was swabbed before
removal from the scene, so you never know your luck - we may yet, under lab
examination, find some body fluids belonging to the suspect. That's our best
bet for getting the suspect's DNA.
'No murder weapons found yet, but it's possible the suspect cleaned them after
use and placed them somewhere in the flat. All possible weapons have been sent
to the lab to see if they match the victim's wounds.
'The fingerprint search was completed using chemical treatment. We sealed the
flat and pumped it full of gas. For the uninformed, we use a chemical that
causes any fingerprints to reveal themselves. Much easier than crawling around
the place with a brush and aluminium powder. We expected quite a lot of
people's prints to flash up, which is usual for this kind of search, but we
were surprised to find only a few different marks. I'm pretty sure the scene
wasn't cleared of prints by the killer. I base that on the fact we found a lot
of prints about, but they were predominantly the victim's.'
Sean intervened. 'But there were prints at the scene other than the victim's?'
'Yes,' replied Roddis. 'Unless the victim was a total recluse, you would expect
to find alien prints at the scene.' He paused for a second and began again.
'Could these alien prints belong to our killer? Well, yes they could, but
somehow I doubt it. The killer has gone to great trouble to avoid leaving
evidence at the scene, so I think it unlikely he would be so kind as to leave
us a nice clear fingerprint.'
He could see Sean was about to jump in again, but he wasn't ready to surrender
the floor just yet.
'However, the prints we have recovered have already been sent to Fingerprint
Branch for searching. At the very least it may tell us something about who the
victim associated with. Always useful.'
Sean nodded his appreciation.
'And last, but not least, we are lucky the carpet in the hallway is new and of
good quality. It was nice and deep and we found the scene quickly enough to
recover some interesting shoe marks that hadn't yet degraded.' Roddis took a
series of photographs from his file and attached them to the board like a
doctor preparing X-rays for viewing. The shoe marks looked like negatives.
'This set -' he pointed to two photographs - 'belonged to the victim. We
matched them easily enough. They belong to a rare type of Converse training
shoe and the unique marks on the soles, the scars if you like, matched the
individual cuts and marks on the victim's shoes.'
Roddis took a step to his left and pointed at another footprint photograph.
'This size ten Dr Marten belongs to the PC who first entered the scene.
Fortunately he remembered his training and walked along the side of the
corridor the door closes on, so he didn't destroy what I'm about to show you.'
Again Roddis took a step to his left and pointed to the board.
'This mark,' Roddis continued while tapping the next photograph, 'was made by
someone else entering the scene. It was made by a flat-soled leather shoe that
was bought recently. We can see by the almost total lack of scars these shoes
have hardly been used at all. Even if we recovered the shoe that made this
indentation, there wouldn't be enough unique marks on the sole to be of much
evidential value. We would need approximately fifteen unique scars before
evidentially we could prove they were one and the same.'
'Are you suggesting this guy deliberately wore new shoes to avoid leaving a
distinctive footprint?' Sally asked.
'I'm not here to suggest anything, DS Jones. I'm just here to tell you what we
found. Suggestions are your field, I believe.'
Roddis moved to the final set of images. They looked strange even in the
photographs. Long scars ran across the sole in all directions and appeared too
thick. Roddis touched the photographs, tracing the scars with his finger.
'We puzzled over this for quite a while,' he told them. 'We ran a lot of tests
to try and replicate the marks. Nothing. Then, in the absence of any other
bright ideas, we tried something. We put normal plastic shopping bags around
the soles of a pair of shoes and bingo, exactly the same sort of marks. I'm no
betting man, but I'd put my pension on the fact this mark was made by the same
shoe as here -' he pointed at the previous photograph he'd discussed. 'Only now
the shoe has a plastic bag over the sole. You can still see the shape of the
shoe sole, and it certainly matches the other sole for size as well.'
Sally spoke again. 'Why put bags over his shoes? He's already walked the scene
without bags, so why bother to try and hide his prints with plastic bags on the
way out?' The room was silent in thought.
Think simply, Sean reminded himself, break it down. They were jumping ahead -
trying to guess the killer in a game of Cluedo before one throw of the dice.
Concentrate on the basics. It made no sense to walk into the scene without
covering his feet and then cover them to leave. So if he didn't do it to hide
his shoeprints, why did he? Sean's imagination came to his rescue, taking him
back to the murder scene, looking through the killer's eyes, seeing his hands
as he bent over and carefully pulled the plastic bags over his shoes and
secured them. Seeing what he saw. Feeling what he felt. The answer leapt into
his mind.
'We're trying to be too clever,' Sean said. 'He didn't do it to hide his shoe
marks. He had the bags over his feet to make sure he wouldn't get blood on his
nice new shoes.'
Sally picked up the train of thought. 'And if he went to the lengths of
protecting his shoes, then it's probable he protected everything. His whole
body.'
She and Sean stared at each other. Everybody in the room was thinking the same
thing. The killer was a careful bastard. The killer knew about forensic
evidence. The killer knew what the police would be looking for. The killer
could think like a cop? Sean broke the silence.
'Okay. So he's careful. Very careful. But he will have made a mistake
somewhere. We haven't had the lab results yet, so it's too early to assume the
killer's left a clean scene. Let's not give this man too much credit. He'll
probably turn out to be another anorak living at home with his mum,
trainspotting and masturbating when he's not out stalking celebrities [?]
probably watched too many cop shows on the Discovery Channel and now he wants
to put all his new-found knowledge to the test.'
The atmosphere in the room lightened. Sean was relieved. He didn't want a tense
team. They mustn't already fear the investigation could be a sticker, an
investigation that dragged on and on without getting anywhere. Failed
investigations felt like a contagious disease, infecting all those involved for
years, limiting future career options, moves to the more glamorous Metropolitan
Police units such as the Flying Squad or the Anti-Terrorist teams.
He spoke again. 'Sally, did your team finish off the door-to-door?'
'Pretty much, guv'nor. Nothing to add since last time. Nobody can remember much
coming and going from his flat, which fits with the lack of other people's
fingerprints inside the scene. He had the occasional guest, but certainly no
parties.' Sally shrugged. 'Sorry, boss.'
He moved on. If Sally hadn't turned up any eyewitnesses, there weren't any.
Sean had no doubt about that.
'Dave?' Sean looked at Donnelly, who shifted in his seat.
'Aye, guv'nor. We've been working through the victim's address book and have
got hold of most of his closer friends. The ones who appear frequently in his
diary. We'll track down the remaining friends and associates soon enough.
'So far, they all say the same thing [?] victim was a nice kid. He was indeed a
homosexual. One of his buddies, a guy called Robin Peak, had a relationship
with him in the past. He was pretty sure Daniel was working as a male
prostitute. Not hanging around public toilets in King's Cross, though.
Apparently he was relatively high-end, hence the decent stuff in his flat, but
this Robin guy said Daniel would hardly ever take clients back there. Only a
select few who could afford to pay the extra hundred pound or so he charged for
the privilege. He would usually go to their places or a decent hotel, or
sometimes he would take care of a punter in nearby toilets, though it cost
extra if you wanted him to slum it.
'His flat was very much a secret hideaway. Only a handful of people knew where
he lived, and we've spoken to most of them. None of them come across as the
knife-wielding maniac type. We have all their details anyway.
'According to Mr Peak, the victim liked the club scene. The gay club scene.
It's also how he met most of his clients. He's well known at a number of gay
nightspots. We'll begin checking them out as soon as.' Donnelly looked around
the room.
'How many?' Sean asked.
'About five or six.'
'Have any of his friends been able to tell us where the victim was on Wednesday
night, Thursday morning?'
'No. But the consensus is that he would probably have been at a club called
Utopia, down in Vauxhall. Under the railway arches. His usual Wednesday
hang-out.'
'Good,' Sean said, before passing out instructions in his usual quick-fire way.
'Andy - you keep on the lab's back. I want my results as soon as possible.
Sooner.' DS Roddis nodded.
'Dave - take who you want and get to work tracking down witnesses who were at
Utopia on Wednesday. Start with the employees.' Donnelly scribbled notes on a
pad.
'Sally - take whoever's left and begin checking intelligence records for people
who have assaulted homosexuals in the past. Not any old bollocks, I mean
serious assaults, including sexual assaults. Start with the Met and if that's
no good check our neighbouring forces, and then go national if you have to.'
Sally's head nodded in agreement as she too scribbled notes. 'Check the names
lifted from the victim's address book first - you never know your luck.'
Sean threw it open, causing the increasing murmurs to temporarily fade. 'Can
anyone think of anything? Have we missed anything? Anything obvious? Anything
not so obvious? Speak now, people.' No one spoke. 'In that case the next
get-together we have will be on Monday, same time. I need some results by then.
The powers that be will want easy answers to this, so let's find them and
finish this one before it turns into a saga.'
The meeting broke up as noisily as a class of schoolchildren being dismissed
for the weekend. Sean walked to his office alone, closing the door behind him.
He picked up a large envelope waiting on his desk and without thinking emptied
out the contents. Copies of photographs of the victim spilled out in front of
him. He stared at them, not touching them. He spun his stool around and looked
out of the window - the sun still brilliant in the sky. The photographs had
caught him off guard. If he had known they were in the envelope he would have
taken time to prepare himself before spilling hell across his desk.
Now he wanted to retreat from his world. He wanted to phone his wife, to be in
touch with a softer reality for a minute or two [?] he wanted to hear her
reassuring doctor's voice. He wanted her to tell him unimportant things about
their daughters Mandy and Louise. Kate would be getting them ready for a trip
to the park. He needed a snapshot of his other, better life, but he delayed a
few seconds, long enough for ugly thoughts to rush his mind. He closed his eyes
as the image of his father's fist slammed into his face, the face of his
childhood - hot, stinging breath growing ever closer. He pressed his knuckles
into his temples and pushed the past away. Once his mind cleared, he reached
for the phone on his desk and dialled the number he knew so well, praying it
would be answered by a voice that existed in the here and now and not just a
mechanical-sounding recording of the person he needed to hear alive. Moments
later the phone was answered by a friendly but businesslike voice - the voice
of his wife.
'Hello,' she said, the pitch of her voice rising on the 'o'.
'It's me.'
'I guessed it probably would be - the number was withheld.'
'Aren't the hospital numbers withheld?'
'Some are. For a second I was afraid I was about to get called into work for
some emergency or another. Anyway - how you doing?' Sean answered with a sigh
she'd heard many times before. 'That good, eh? Is it a bad one?'
'Is there such a thing as a good one?'
'No. I suppose not.'
'Anyway - what you doing?'
'In the park with the kids. Too nice a day to be stuck inside. What about you?'
'In my office looking at ... looking at some reports,' he lied as his eyes fell
on the crime-scene photographs. He knew Kate could handle it, better maybe than
he could, but such things had no place in the park with his wife and children
on a sunny day.
'Sorry,' she sympathized, trying to read his voice for signs. 'Sean?'
'Yeah.'
'You okay?'
'I'm fine.'
'You sure?'
He sighed again before continuing. 'Just ... the block the crime scene was in
reminded me of ... you know.'
'Sean,' she counselled, 'a lot of things remind you of your childhood - that
can't be helped. Your past will always be part of you - nothing can change
that.'
'I know,' he assured her. 'But the memories, the images are so much more real,
vivid when I'm in or close to a crime scene. Most of the time I can almost
forget my childhood, but not when I'm in a place like that - not when I'm in a
scene like that.'
'I understand, but we've talked about this - many times. It becomes more vivid
because you use your imagination as a tool, and when you open the door to your
imagination you're going to allow some demons out, Sean. It can't be helped,
but it can be controlled - you've already shown that.'
'I know,' he admitted. 'I'm fine.'
'Why don't you come home a little early - have some normal time for a couple of
hours - drink too much and fool around?'
'No chance of that,' he told her. 'Not for a few days yet, anyway.'
'Any idea how long this one's going to take?'
'How long's a piece of string?'
'That's not good.'
'Is it ever?'
'Yes,' Kate told him. 'When you're at home, with us - that's good.'
'When I am there.'
'Well then be here. Remember all work and no play makes Sean a--'
'Makes me a what?' he interrupted, thinly veiled anger suddenly in his voice.
'Nothing,' she answered. 'I was just ... nothing. I have to go now - the kids
have run off. I'll see you tonight. Be careful. I love you.' The line went dead
- dead before he had a chance to say sorry for snapping at her - before he had
a chance to ask about the girls - before he had a chance to tell her he loved
her too.
6
Friday [?] late morning
Sean drove the car through heavy central London traffic while Donnelly spoke,
his notebook flipped open on his thigh. 'The man we need to talk to works for
some international finance company, Butler and Mason. After this morning's
briefing I popped into one of the nightclubs on the list. Place in Vauxhall.
They were cleaning up last night's mess, but the head of security was still
there. He also works the door at the club during opening hours.' Sean listened
without interrupting. Donnelly checked his notebook. 'Stuart Young's the guy's
name. Now, he says he knew our victim; not bosom buddies, but he knew him to
speak to and he knew he worked the club for clients too.'
'He was okay with that?' Sean asked.
'Apparently so. As far as he's concerned, it happens. If he tried to stop every
bit of naughtiness that went on in the club they wouldn't stay in business too
long.' Sean raised his eyebrows. 'And young Daniel was apparently subtle about
it, didn't have too many clients, kept it all nice and low key.'
'If I was a cynic, I might suspect Mr Young was turning a blind eye because
Daniel was paying him to do so.'
Donnelly continued. 'Either way, Young confirms that Daniel was in Utopia on
Wednesday night.'
'Was he with anyone particular?'
'Afraid not. According to Young, Daniel spent some time with a couple of his
regulars, guys who have been going to the club for years.'
'Have we spoken with them yet?'
'I spoke with them both myself. I gave Young my number and asked him to phone
around the victim's regular tricks. Amongst those who already got back to me
are the men he was with Wednesday night.' Donnelly flicked through his notebook
again. 'Sam Milford and a Benjamin Briggs. Both seemed pretty upset by the
whole thing, both happy to provide samples. Neither great suspect material.'
'Any other clients been in touch?'
'They certainly have. The grapevine has been working nicely for me, but they
all seem much of a muchness [?] all very upset, all willing to cooperate. No
great suspects yet, but maybe that'll change when I meet them face-to-face.'
'But you don't think so, do you?'
Donnelly shrugged. 'The victim's clients aren't looking too likely, so I did a
little bit more digging.'
'And?'
'Okay.' Donnelly sounded like a mock game-show host. 'Possible suspect number
one - Steven Paramore, male, thirty-two years old, white. Sally had Paulo check
local intelligence records and he found this guy, recently released from
Belmarsh having just served eight years for the attempted murder of a teenage
rent boy back in 2005. Apparently he almost beat the victim to death with his
bare hands.'
'Nice.'
'After his release he went back to live with dear old mum, whom I'm sure must
be fucking delighted.'
'What's his address?'
'Bardsley Lane, Deptford.'
'Close to Graydon's flat,' Sean said.
'Close enough,' Donnelly agreed. 'And he's a very angry man - served nearly a
full sentence because of his bad behaviour inside. It's also suspected he's a
closet homosexual himself.'
'Is that what you think our killer is?'
'What, a homosexual?'
'No. Angry.'
'Don't you?'
'Maybe. Check him out anyway. In fact, have Paulo check him out - he dug him
up.'
'No problem. Now, moving on to suspect number two: Jonnie Dempsey, male, white,
twenty-four years old, an Aussie, works as a barman in Utopia and is known to
be a friend of Daniel's, although no suggestion yet he was anything more, but
... Anyhow, he was supposed to be working the night Daniel was killed, only he
didn't show. And he hasn't been seen since. The manager's been trying his
mobile and home numbers relentlessly, but no joy. Jonnie Dempsey is very much
missing. Daniel's secret lover?' Donnelly suggested.
'I don't know.' Sean sounded unconvinced. 'Like I said, this doesn't feel like
a domestic.'
'Maybe it's not,' Donnelly half agreed. 'Maybe there's more to Jonnie Dempsey
than anyone's giving him credit for?'
'Fine. Find him. Check him out. But neither Paramore or Dempsey look like they
work at Butler and Mason International Finance, so why are we here? Whose day
are we about to spoil?'
'The guy we're about to fall out with is called James Hellier.' Sean noticed
Donnelly didn't have to refer to his notebook to recall the name.
'And why should I be interested in James Hellier?' Sean asked, trying to clear
his mind of the avalanche of admin and protocol he'd had to deal with since the
investigation began. He needed a clear mind if he was going to have any chance
of thinking freely and imaginatively.
'Show me a liar and a man with a lot to lose and I'll show you a pretty good
suspect - Hellier's both those things.'
'How so?'
'Stuart Young told me that Daniel generally liked to play it safe, keep to
established, regular customers, so it's always a wee bit of a surprise when a
new guy comes on the scene.'
'And a new guy had come on to the scene?'
'Aye,' Donnelly explained. 'Only appeared about a week ago. Kept himself to
himself, didn't mix, didn't cause trouble either, but Young's pretty sure he
had relations of the paying kind with Daniel at least once. He says he saw them
outside the club, before they headed off together.'
'Go on,' Sean encouraged, listening more intently now, a mental picture of the
man they were about to meet beginning to form in his thoughts. Not of his
physical appearance, but of his state of mind, his possible motivation, his
ability or not to take the life of a fellow man.
'Okay. Firstly, Young told me he had asked Daniel about this newcomer a few
nights after he'd seen them outside together - nothing heavy, just small talk.
Daniel told him that the man was called David, no surname mentioned, and that
he worked in the City and lived alone somewhere out west. But then things get a
little more complicated. You see, Young was working the door the night the
newcomer first appeared, when a regular punter came in, a ...' Donnelly quickly
checked his notebook again '... a Roger Bennett. Now Bennett, who's known Young
for years, sees this newcomer David and makes for the exit sharpish. Young asks
him if there's a problem and Bennett tells him there is, the problem being that
Bennett knows our friend David.'
'How?' Sean asked unnecessarily.
'Through work. Bennett works for a big men's magazine in the West End - you
know the type of glossy rag, all cars and tits. Anyway, this new guy's been to
his office a number of times to do their accounts.'
'So?' Sean was growing impatient.
'The problem being, Bennett is gay, as you may have guessed, but he doesn't
want anyone at work to find out. Apparently it wouldn't go down too well in his
office. So he decamps from the club and asks Young to give him a ring if and
when David disappears from the scene.
'No big deal, but I figure if this David's been with the victim, we need to
speak to him anyway. So Young gives me Bennett's number and I give him a ring
and ask him where I can find this David. He tells me he doesn't have the
foggiest what I'm talking about, but when I remind him of the night he left the
club on the hurry-up, etc. etc. it all comes back to him and he opens up. And
guess what he tells me?'
Sean answered immediately. 'He's not called David and he doesn't work in the
City.'
Donnelly froze for a second, a little deflated that Sean had made the leap
without needing any more information. 'Dead right, Bennett reckons that David's
real name is James Hellier and he works for Butler and Mason International
Finance. But you already knew that, didn't you?'
Sean didn't answer. 'What you didn't know,' Donnelly continued, a satisfied
smile spreading across his face, 'is that, according to Bennett, Hellier also
has a wife and a couple of kiddies. Interested?'
'Hmm,' Sean replied. He was interested. 'Like you said, "Show me a liar and a
man with a lot to lose ..." But this doorman, Young, did he ever see Hellier in
the club before that night, or after?'
'No, but he doesn't work there every night.'
'CCTV?'
'Their system's ancient - still runs on VHS, if you can believe it. They reuse
the tapes after seven days. The tapes from last week are already recorded over,
but we can check the current tapes to see if he's been there any time during
the last few days.'
'Get it done,' Sean told him as they pulled up outside an old Georgian mansion
block converted into exclusive offices. Identical buildings ran the length of
the long road, all painted white with black windows, and doors adorned with
heavy, shiny brass numbers. Pointed metal railings fenced off the entrances to
the basements, curling up and along the short flights of stairs leading to the
front door, where visitors were met by pristine brass plates announcing the
company within. Only Arabs and the aristocracy could afford to actually live
here now.
The two detectives climbed from their Ford and walked across the pavement to
the building's entrance. 'Here we go, Butler and Mason International Finance.
Shall we?' Donnelly rang the outside security buzzer. They didn't have to wait
long. A female voice crackled back from the intercom. 'Butler and Mason. Good
morning. How can I help?'
'Detective Inspector Corrigan and Detective Sergeant Donnelly from the
Metropolitan Police.' Donnelly deliberately avoided stating they were from the
Murder Investigation Team. 'Here to see a Mr James Hellier.' He made it sound
as if they had an appointment. It didn't work.
'Is he expecting you?' came the voice through the small metal box. Donnelly
looked at Sean and shrugged his shoulders. Time to put a little pressure on.
'No. He's not expecting us, but I can assure you he will want to see us.'
Whoever it was on the intercom wasn't easily bullied. 'Can I ask what it's in
connection with please?'
'It's a private matter concerning Mr Hellier,' Donnelly told her. 'We believe
someone may have stolen some cheques from him. We need to speak with him before
someone empties his bank account.' The threat of losing money usually opened
doors.
'I see. Please come in.'
The door buzzed. Donnelly pushed it open. They passed through a second security
door and into the reception of Butler and Mason, where they were met by a tall,
attractive young woman. She wore expensive-looking spectacles and an equally
expensive-looking tailored suit. Her hair was hazelnut brown and tied back in a
perfect ponytail. Sean thought she looked unreal.
'The voice on the intercom, I assume?' Donnelly asked. She smiled a perfect,
practised smile that meant nothing.
'Good morning, gentlemen. If I could just see your identification, please?'
Neither Sean or Donnelly had their warrant cards ready. Donnelly rolled his
eyes as they fished their small black leather wallets from inside jacket
pockets and presented them flipped open to the secretary.
'Thank you.' She looked up at them after examining the warrant cards more
closely than they were used to. 'If you would like to follow me, Mr Hellier has
agreed to see you straight away. His office is on the top floor, so I suggest
we take the lift.'
Clearly Hellier was doing well for himself. They followed her to the lift where
she pulled open the old-style concertina grid and then the lift doors. She
stepped inside and waited for them to join her before pressing the button for
the top level. They moved silently up through the building until the lift
juddered to a halt. She opened the doors and another grid. Sean was losing
patience with the charade. They stepped out into the upper reaches of the
building and walked along the opulent corridors without talking, the high
ceilings providing plenty of wall space to hang portraits of people long since
dead. The entire office reeked of money and was much bigger inside than they
had expected. Eventually they arrived at a large mahogany door. The nameplate
attached bore the inscription James Hellier. Junior Partner. The secretary
knocked twice before pushing the door open without waiting for a reply. 'Some
gentlemen from the police to see you, sir.'
James Hellier was as elegant as the secretary. A little under six foot. About
forty years old, athletic build. Light brown hair, immaculately cut. He looked
healthy and fit in the way the rich do. Good food. Good holidays. Expensive
gyms and skin-care products. His suit probably cost more than Sean earned in a
month. Maybe two.
Hellier held out a hand. 'James Hellier. Miss Collins said something about my
cheques being stolen, but I really don't think that's likely, you see--'
The secretary had already left the office and closed the door. Sean cut across
Hellier. 'That's not actually why we're here, Mr Hellier. Your cheques are
fine. We need to ask you a few questions, but we thought it best to be discreet
until we had a chance to speak with you.'
Sean was studying him. In an inquiry like this a witness could turn into a
suspect within seconds. Was he looking at the killer of Daniel Graydon?
'I hope you haven't come here to try and obtain client details. If you have,
then I hope you've brought a Production Order with you.'
'No, Mr Hellier. It's about your visits to the Utopia club.'
Hellier sat down slowly. 'Excuse me. I'm not familiar with that club. The only
club I belong to, other than my golf club, is Home House in Portman Square.
Perhaps you know it?'
Sean was trying to judge the man. He was sure Hellier was lying, but he sounded
remarkably confident. 'DS Donnelly here's been making some inquiries at the
club. You've been recognized.'
'Who by?' Hellier asked.
'I'm not prepared to tell you that at this time.'
'I see,' Hellier said, smiling. 'A silent accuser then.'
'No. Just someone who wants to remain anonymous for now.'
'Well, whoever it is, they're lying. I can assure you I've never heard of a
club called Utopia.'
'Mr Hellier, I've had all the club's CCTV tapes from the last couple of weeks
seized. As we speak, some of my officers are going through them. They'll be
producing stills of all the people on the tapes. How sure are you that when I
look through those stills I am not going to see a picture of you? Because if I
do, I am going to start wondering why you're lying. Do you understand?'
There was a long pause before Hellier answered. 'Who put you up to this?' he
eventually asked in a calm voice. 'Who paid you to follow me? Was it my wife?'
Sean and Donnelly looked at each other, confused. 'Mr Hellier,' Sean explained.
'This is a murder investigation. We're police officers, not private
investigators. I'm investigating the murder of Daniel Graydon. He was killed on
Wednesday night, Thursday morning, in his flat. I believe you knew Daniel. Is
that correct?'
'Murdered?' Hellier asked through gritted teeth. 'I'm sorry. I had no idea. How
did it ...?'
Sean watched every flicker in Hellier's face, every hand and finger movement,
every sign that could tell him whether Hellier's shock was genuine. Did he
sense any trace of compassion? 'He was stabbed to death in his own flat,' Sean
told him and waited for the reaction.
'Do you know who did it - and why, for God's sake?'
'No,' Sean answered as his mind processed Hellier's performance [?] and that
was what he was sure it was. As polished as it was, as convincing as it was, a
performance nonetheless. 'Actually, we thought you might be able to help us
with the who and why.'
'I'm sorry, but I really don't see how. I hardly knew Daniel. I know nothing
about his life. We had a brief physical relationship, nothing more.'
'Did he know you were married?' Sean asked.
'No, I don't think so. How could he?'
'You're a wealthy man. Did he know anything about your financial
circumstances?' Sean picked up the pace of his questioning.
'Not as far as I'm aware.' Hellier answered quickly and confidently.
'Did Daniel Graydon at any time try to extort money or other favours from you,
Mr Hellier?'
'Look, I think I know where you're going with this, Inspector ... sorry, I
can't remember your name.'
'Corrigan. Sean Corrigan.'
'Well, Inspector Corrigan, I think my solicitor should be present before I say
anything.'
Donnelly leaned in towards him. 'That's fine, Mr Hellier. You can have a panel
of judges present, for all I care, but you're a witness right now. Not a
suspect. So why do you need a solicitor? And I don't know for sure, but I
suspect your wife is unaware of your nocturnal activities. And what about the
other partners here at this lovely firm? Do they know you have a taste for
young male prostitutes? I guess it's all a question of how much you trust your
solicitor to show absolute discretion. And me too.'
Hellier stared hard at the two intruders into his life, small intelligent eyes
darting between the detectives, before suddenly standing up. 'All right. All
right. Please keep your voices down.' He sat down again. 'I went there once,
about a week ago, but please, my wife mustn't find out. It would destroy her.
Our children would become a laughing stock. They shouldn't be punished for my
weaknesses.' He paused. 'It may be difficult for you to understand, but I do
love my wife and children, I just have other needs. I have suppressed them for
more than twenty years, but recently I ... I couldn't seem to stop myself.'
'When did you last see Daniel Graydon?' Sean asked.
'I can't remember exactly.'
'Try harder.'
'A week or so ago.'
'We need to know exactly when and where, Mr Hellier,' Sean insisted.
'Try checking your diary, iPhone, or whatever it is you use,' Donnelly
suggested.
'It won't be in my diary,' Hellier told them sharply. 'I'm sure you understand
why.'
'But something will be,' Sean said. 'A false business meeting, a dinner with
clients that never took place. You would have put something in there to cover
yourself.'
Hellier studied Sean, their eyes unconsciously locked together. He reached for
his iPad with a sigh. His finger slid around the screen and within seconds he
found what he was looking for [?] a false overnight meeting in Zurich. 'The
last time I saw Daniel was a week last Tuesday - eight days ago.'
'Where?' Sean pressed.
'In Utopia.'
'Did you ever go to his flat?'
'No.'
Sean felt like being cruel. 'And did you pay him to have sex with you in the
club or somewhere else?'
'I pay for sex because it's less complicated. Keeps things simple. I can't risk
being involved in a relationship. That would make me vulnerable. You needn't
look so disgusted, Inspector. I don't like the fact I pay for sex. I don't like
the fact I abuse the trust of family and friends. I keep things simple for all
our sakes.'
'So where did you have sex with him?'
'I've admitted having sex with him - isn't that enough?'
'Are you absolutely sure you didn't go back to his flat, ever?' Sean asked.
'Positive.'
'And Wednesday night. Where were you Wednesday night?' Sean continued.
Hellier paused before answering, his eyes narrowing. 'You don't ... you don't
seriously think I had anything to do with his death, do you?' He looked both
incredulous and frustrated.
'I just need to know where you were,' Sean repeated with an almost friendly
smile.
'Well, if you must know, I was at home all night. I had a pile of paperwork to
catch up on, so I left here at about six and went straight home, where I spent
most of the night working in my study.'
'Can anyone verify that?'
'My wife. We had dinner together, but, like I said, I spent most of the night
working, alone.'
'Then we need to speak to your wife,' Sean insisted.
'Look,' Hellier snapped. 'Am I a suspect or not?'
'No, Mr Hellier,' Sean answered. 'You're a witness, until I say otherwise. But
we'll still need to speak with your wife.'
'Don't worry,' Donnelly reassured Hellier. 'We won't tell her what we're
investigating.'
'Then what will you tell her?'
'Oh, I don't know. That we're looking into an identity fraud, a case of
mistaken identity,' Donnelly offered. 'The sooner she can confirm you were at
home Wednesday night, the sooner we can clear the whole mess up. Fair enough?'
'You do want to help us, don't you, Mr Hellier?' Sean asked.
Hellier sat silently for a time before leaning forward and snatching a pen and
paper. He quickly scribbled something down and pushed the paper towards
Donnelly. 'My wife's name and my home address,' he said. 'I've assumed a phone
call wouldn't satisfy you gentlemen.'
'Much obliged,' Donnelly said, slipping the note into his jacket pocket.
'Will she be at home now?' Sean asked.
'Possibly,' Hellier answered.
'Good,' was all Sean replied.
'And when my wife verifies that I was at home, I'm assuming that will be the
end of it.'
Sean almost laughed. 'No, Mr Hellier, it's a little more complicated than that.
We need you to come to the station within the next two days. Whenever is
convenient to you will be fine. Bring that solicitor too, if you want.'
'But I've told you all I know,' Hellier argued. 'I'm sorry, but I really can't
help you.'
'You had sex with a young man who's now dead,' Sean told him. 'Murdered. We've
taken samples from the victim's body. Forensic samples. If you had sex with him
within the last couple of weeks, part of you could still be on the victim. We
need to eliminate any foreign samples found on the body that may have been left
by you.'
'That really won't be necessary. I always used a condom. I may be foolish, but
I'm not mad. You won't find any ...' Hellier stalled, trying to think of
suitable words '... thing belonging to me on his body. You don't need to
examine me.'
Sean stood up and leaned in close to Hellier. 'Oh yes I do, Mr Hellier. And you
will give me what I need. If you don't, then I'll arrest you on suspicion of
murder and take the samples anyway. I'll get a warrant and search your home.
I'll search this office - and we won't be as discreet about our business as
we've been so far.'
He wasn't bluffing; the more serious the offence, the more he could stretch his
powers to the limit. He opened his wallet, took out one of his business cards
and threw it on the desk. 'That's my office and mobile numbers. You have a day
to call me. And I'll require a full written statement from you at the same
time. You'll have to tell us about your relationship with Daniel Graydon.
Absolutely everything. One day to call, Mr Hellier, and then--'
The door to Hellier's office unexpectedly swung open. Another well-dressed man
entered the office without asking. Sean assumed the rich-looking man in his
late thirties or early forties had to be Hellier's boss. He looked the man
over, taking in details only a cop would see. He did it to everybody nearly all
the time, an occupational hazard he was almost unaware of. The man had purpose
and poise, not just because of his physical presence: he was at least six foot
tall, strong and fit, his tailored suit not disguising his deep chest and slim
waist. But he also had an aura about him, a sense of power and control. Sean
knew the man would be the sort of boss his underlings would both fear and love.
'James.' The well-dressed man spoke into the room. 'I heard about the theft. I
trust you got hold of your bank before the bastards had a chance to cash any
cheques?' The man's voice matched everything else about him: authoritative and
dominating, but soothing and reassuring at the same time. Sean felt it was
almost gravitational, drawing whoever he was talking to towards him, like a
brilliant actor performing on the stage.
'Yes. Yes I did. Panic over,' Hellier told him.
The well-dressed man thrust out a hand toward Sean and Donnelly. 'Sebastian
Gibran. Senior Partner here. Always a pleasure to help the police in any way we
can. Any idea who you're looking for?'
'No. Not yet,' said Sean, shaking his hand, feeling a little thrown off centre
by Gibran's very presence. The handshake was firm, but not overpowering,
although Sean believed Gibran could have crushed his hand if he'd wanted to.
'Well, anything we can do to help, just let me know.' Gibran's smile was
perfect - straight white teeth that shone almost as brightly as his eyes [?]
and radiated warmth and charm, all wrapped in a protective sheath of power.
'Thank you. I will,' Sean replied. 'Don't get up, Mr Hellier. We'll let
ourselves out. And thanks for your time.' Both detectives stood to leave the
office.
'Allow me to show you out,' Gibran offered.
'We'll be fine,' Sean said, keen to be away so that he and Donnelly could begin
to speak freely. 'I'm sure you're very busy.'
'I insist,' Gibran argued, once again flashing his mouthful of brilliant white
teeth. 'Please, follow me.'
Sean and Donnelly followed Gibran, who smiled and nodded his acknowledgement to
staff members they passed, using Christian names to greet each and every one.
Sean had worked in the same office for over two years and still struggled to
remember everyone's names. Gibran's smoothness only made him dislike him all
the more. When they were alone, Gibran spoke again. 'Where did you say you were
from?'
'We informed Mr Hellier where we are from,' Sean responded.
'I'm sure you did,' Gibran replied. 'But you didn't tell me.'
'Our dealings with Mr Hellier are confidential,' Sean said firmly. 'If he wants
to tell you more, that's up to him.'
'If James is involved in anything that could damage the reputation of this
institution, then I should be informed, Inspector,' Gibran argued. 'Look,' he
took a conciliatory tone, the smile back in place, 'a lot of people rely on me
for their welfare and security in these uncertain times. It is my
responsibility to protect their interests. The need of the many is greater than
the need of the individual.'
'Meaning, if Hellier looks like he's going to be bad for business, you'll throw
him to the wolves,' Donnelly accused.
Gibran stared hard at Donnelly before speaking again. 'James is very privileged
to have both a detective inspector and a detective sergeant investigating what
appears to be a minor theft.' He watched Sean and Donnelly look at each other;
it was only a glance, but he noticed it. 'Really, you didn't think I was that
stupid, did you?'
Sean had no answer and felt he needed to counter, to try and knock Gibran out
of his stride. 'What did you say you do here?' Sean asked. 'International
finance - what exactly does that mean?'
'Nothing the police need to be concerned about,' Gibran answered. 'We help
people and organizations raise capital for various business projects, no more.
You know, oil people wanting to move into the building and property markets,
property people wanting to move into the tech markets, and now and then someone
literally walks in off the street with a brilliant idea but no funds. We'll
help them obtain those funds.'
'Well, that all sounds very noble,' Donnelly chipped in.
'We're not part of the banking system,' Gibran assured them. 'There's no need
for animosity here.'
Sean looked him up and down. He had no more he wanted to say. 'Goodbye, Mr
Gibran. It was a pleasure meeting you.'
He could feel Gibran's eyes watching them as they finally escaped into the
lift, the streets below beckoning them. Sean needed to drag Hellier out of his
natural comfort zone and into his world, away from protectors like Sebastian
Gibran. Then and only then would they see the real James Hellier.
James Hellier stood by his office window looking down on the detectives in the
street below. He was careful not to be seen. He paid special attention to Sean.
He disliked him, sensed the danger in him, but he felt no anger towards him. In
his own way he appreciated him - appreciated a worthy adversary who would make
the game all the more fun to play. They thought they were clever, but they
weren't going to ruin things for him. He would make sure of it.
He cursed under his breath - somehow he'd been recognized at the damn nightclub
and he wondered who by. He should have been more careful. It was unfortunate,
but not entirely unexpected. He needed to stay calm. They had nothing on him.
Police talk and threats meant nothing. He would wait and see if anything
developed. He wouldn't panic and run. There was no need. Not yet.
But he would have to be careful of Gibran too. Trust him to come and stick his
nose in where it wasn't wanted. He thought he was so fucking clever, senior
partner at Butler and Mason, the self-appointed sheriff of the company. If it
came to it he would be long gone before Gibran found out. Gibran should
remember who gave him a job at Butler and Mason in the first place. It was
Gibran who personally checked his references, glowing reports from previous
employers in the United States and Far East. Only thing was, not a single one
of them was real. If Gibran had actually got on a plane to check Hellier's
background properly, he would have eventually discovered that Hellier's
previous employment history was a myth. But he knew Gibran would rely on
telephone calls and emails, all of which were easily arranged, especially for
someone like Hellier: he had friends in low places and dirt on some in high
places. Gibran had been no more difficult to fool than any of the others. And
while Hellier might never have been to university to study accounts or high
finance, what he'd learnt on the streets, what he'd learnt in order to survive,
had left him more than qualified to work anywhere he liked.
Hellier moved away from the window and sat back in his desk chair, his hands
pyramided in front of his face. He liked his life, he liked all the privileges
being James Hellier brought and the cover it provided for his other activities,
past, present and future. He wasn't going to let either Inspector Corrigan or,
for that matter, Sebastian Gibran, spoil it for him now, not after all these
years. He loved to play the game. He enjoyed the money, but it was the game he
loved, and this one wasn't lost yet.
Sean and Donnelly sat in their car outside Hellier's office building. 'Well?'
Donnelly asked. 'What d'you think about Mr James Hellier? Did you get a feel
for him?'
'He's a smooth bastard,' Sean replied. 'And so was his boss, for that matter.
Like a couple of fucking clones. But Hellier, he's trying to be something he's
not, whereas Gibran's persona seemed genuine, effortless. We'll have to watch
out for him. He looks like the sort who'll be wanting to stick his nose into
our investigation. As for Hellier, behind the suit and haircut there's an angry
man.' He didn't tell Donnelly about the animalistic odour he'd smelled leaking
through Hellier's skin. A musky smell, almost chokingly strong. The same odour
he'd smelled on others in the past. Other killers. 'But why is he so pissed off
with the world?'
'Pissed off with the world?' Donnelly questioned. 'I thought he was just pissed
off with us.'
Sean realized he was moving too fast for Donnelly. 'You're probably right.' He
needed to give Donnelly something more tangible, more logical. 'But there are
already two possible motives for him. Firstly, he was having an intimate
relationship with Graydon, and somewhere along the line it went wrong.'
'So we're back to a lovers' tiff?'
'Or,' Sean continued, 'Graydon was blackmailing him and Hellier thought,
probably correctly, the only way to make it stop would be to get rid of him.
He's a walking blackmail victim and Graydon liked nice things [?] remember his
flat?'
'And the seventy-seven stab wounds?' Donnelly asked. Those needed explaining.
'If he just wanted him out of the way, why not do it nice and neat [?] one
shot, one well-placed knife wound, strangulation? Makes me favour a domestic
bust-up.'
'No,' Sean reminded him. 'Remember what Dr Canning told us [?] the wounds were
placed around the body, almost ritually, as if the killer wanted us to think it
was a rage attack to get us chasing our tails looking for a jealous
ex-boyfriend. Or even a motiveless stranger attack. That and the lack of
forensics at the scene leave me thinking it was premeditated, which means
blackmail was his most likely motivation. Or something else we haven't thought
of yet. Everything else was staged.'
Donnelly looked less than completely convinced. 'Well, in the absence of
anything better than a missing barman and recently released homophobic
homosexual, it's worth running with, so long as you're convinced Hellier has it
in him to kill.'
'Let's just say I get a very bad feeling about him,' Sean replied. 'His
attempted show of compassion made me feel sick. Everything about him seemed
off, as if he were hiding behind the facade of being a happy family man.'
'Why are you so sure he was faking it? I thought he registered some real
surprise that Daniel had been killed.'
'False sincerity. I've seen that too many times.'
Donnelly had worked with Sean long enough to know that sometimes it was best to
simply accept his word and move on. 'You're a scary individual,' he said. 'Now
all we need is the evidence to prove your theory.'
'That's the hard part, as always.'
'Arrest him. Search his house, office, car. Get a look at his bank accounts.
Compare his prints and samples to anything and everything from the scene.'
'No,' Sean insisted. 'I sensed no panic when we asked him about being in the
flat. He knows he's left it clean. Or maybe I'm wrong and he's never been
there. Anyway, we're getting ahead of ourselves. I need to know more before I
draw any lasting conclusions. Let's have him followed for a while.'
'Round-the-clock surveillance?' Donnelly asked.
'Starting as soon as possible,' Sean confirmed. 'He may have missed something.
Something that could betray him. If we're lucky he'll lead us to something
that'll hang him or at least give us grounds to dig further.'
'If we're very lucky,' Donnelly pointed out.
'Right now we don't have much else, so let's start digging into his past. A man
like Hellier doesn't just appear. Have criminal and intelligence records
checked, see if Mr Hellier here hasn't got some skeletons in his closet.'
'What about Inland Revenue, employment records, general background information?'
'Not yet. We haven't got enough for Production Orders. Let's stick to our own
records first [?] see what we can turn up.'
'It'll be done,' Donnelly told him. 'Anything else?'
'Yeah,' Sean answered. 'You take the car and get back to the nick. Concentrate
on tracking down the rest of the victim's clients and let me know as soon as
you turn up someone or something interesting.'
'Fine. And yourself?'
'I'm going to have a little chat with his wife.'
Sean took the Tube from Knightsbridge to King's Cross, noting all possible CCTV
points that Hellier could have passed, including those covering the taxi rank
outside the station, where Hellier probably hopped into a cab for the last leg
of his journey home, although from here their journeys differed - Sean
travelling the rest of the way by bus. Black cabs were an expensive luxury for
him, not a realistic mode of transport. Not so for Hellier. Even so, it hadn't
taken him long to get to Hellier's place: 10 Devonia Road, Islington, close to
Upper Street and the Angel underground station.
Hellier's house was another beautiful Georgian terrace and looked like a much
smaller version of the Butler and Mason office building. Sean was beginning to
feel undervalued and underpaid, but at least the time alone had settled his
racing mind and allowed him space to clear his thoughts. He bounced up the
steps and gently tapped the chrome knocker twice. After an acceptable wait the
door was opened. 'Hello,' was all she said. Sean had expected her to say more.
He showed her his warrant card and tried to look as unofficial as he could.
'Sorry to bother you, I'm Detective Inspector Corrigan, Metropolitan Police.'
'Oh,' she replied, attempting to feign surprise. So Hellier had called and
warned her. No matter. Sean had assumed he would [?] that wasn't why he was
here. He was here for a chance at a snapshot into Hellier's life.
'Mrs Hellier?' Sean asked, smiling.
'Yes. Elizabeth. Is there a problem?'
Sean was struck by how much she looked and sounded like a female version of
James Hellier: tall, slim, attractive, well spoken, the product of finishing
school and two skiing holidays a year; the best of everything her whole life,
but unlike with Hellier he could sense her naivety. Was that why Hellier had
married her?
'Nothing to worry about,' Sean lied. 'I'm just looking into an identity fraud
case. We think someone may be trying to pass himself off as your husband James.'
'Really?' she asked.
'I'm afraid so. They tried to make a substantial purchase in Harrods on
Wednesday evening. I've already spoken to your husband and he says he was home
all night with you. If you could confirm that, then I'll know for sure the
person we have in custody is lying to us.'
'But if you've already spoken to my husband, why do you need me to confirm he
was at home?'
Naive, but not stupid, Sean thought. 'I like to be thorough. Maybe we should
discuss this inside,' he suggested, hoping to see Hellier's things, to walk in
the skin of James Hellier, even for a few minutes.
'That's not really convenient right now. My children will be home from their
tennis lesson any second. I wouldn't want them to start worrying. I'm sure you
understand. But I can tell you that James was here on Wednesday, although I
hardly saw him. He was working in his office most of the night.'
Sean couldn't stop himself looking past her into the house and sensed her
trying to grow large to prevent him. She wanted him to stay out of her family's
life.
'Of course,' he said. 'I understand - and thank you. You've been very helpful.
Well, I'll leave you in peace.' He turned to leave, then quickly turned back,
speaking before the door closed on the opportunity. 'One more thing ...' He
registered the annoyance on her face, the slight flushing of the facial
capillaries, only minutely visible behind her tanned skin. He waved his finger
randomly at the front of the house and spoke casually. 'I was wondering, which
room is your husband's office?'
She stumbled. Clearly her husband hadn't warned her to expect this type of
question. 'Does it matter?'
'No,' Sean replied, smiling. 'Not really.' He waited, not moving, knowing she
would give in to the silence.
'This one here,' she surrendered, pointing to one of the front ground-floor
windows, keen to be rid of him.
'Ah,' he said. 'If I had a house like this, that's where I'd have my office
too.' Satisfied, he knew it was time to leave. He had sown the seeds of doubt
in her and she would sow the seeds of fear into Hellier. He imagined the
panicked conversation she would have with her husband later that day, both
questioning each other, doubting each other. 'Well, I've taken up enough of
your time. Goodbye, Mrs Hellier. Tell James I said hello.' She didn't answer.
He heard the door slam before he reached the last step.
Sean made the long journey on public transport from Islington back to Peckham,
jealously watching the vast majority of his fellow commuters wearily heading
off for the weekend while he was heading back to work, all thoughts of home and
rest still just a distant hope. He'd had little more than six hours' sleep in
the last two nights and knew the next few days would be no better. Reminding
himself to buy some caffeine pills, he used the public entrance to the police
station and climbed the stairs to the incident room without acknowledging
anyone. As he crossed the room towards his office he casually observed who was
there and who was missing. He assumed those not there would be running down
whatever inquiries Donnelly had assigned them. He entered his office and sat
heavily in his chair. Within seconds Donnelly was at his open door, a heavy
bundle of witness statements and completed actions cradled in his arms. He
didn't seem to feel the weight.
'How d'you get on with Hellier's trouble and strife?'
'She's lying for him,' Sean answered. 'Said he was home all night. I got the
feeling it wasn't the first time she's covered for him.'
'Aye, but does she know what we're investigating?'
'Not unless Hellier's told her, which I doubt.'
'So technically he has an alibi.'
'Yeah, but you could drive a bus through it. She said he was in his office all
night, alone. It's on the ground floor next to the front door. He could have
slipped out and back easy as.'
'But you don't think he went home, do you?'
'No, I don't,' Sean confirmed. 'What have you turned up?'
'Well, from a criminal records point of view, Hellier's as clean as a whistle.
Not even a parking ticket, as far as I can tell. He's been working at Butler
and Mason for a few years now; before that he was working for some American
company in New York, and prior to that he worked in Hong Kong and Singapore.'
'Where d'you get all that from?' Sean asked, impressed.
'I googled him,' Donnelly answered with a wry smile. 'Technology. Our greatest
friend and our greatest enemy. Oh, and I called a pal of mine at Revenue and
Customs [?] asked for a cheeky favour. As far as they're concerned, he's legit.
Since being back in the UK he's paid his tax on time and upfront, no problems.'
Sean looked disappointed, although he hadn't really expected anything else.
'With his taste in after-work pleasures you'd think he'd be a little bit shy
about plastering his face all over the Internet,' Sean suggested.
'No photographs,' Donnelly told him. 'Lots of info, but no photographs.'
'He's a careful one,' Sean said. 'Just like whoever killed Graydon. Very
careful.'
'Plenty of people working in the financial sector have taken their mugshots off
the Internet since the banking crisis.'
'Yeah, but Hellier's a financier, not a banker.'
'Guv'nor,' Donnelly reminded him, 'we live in a country where seventy per cent
of the population don't know the difference between a paedophile and a
paediatrician.'
Sean sighed. 'A good point well made.' He rubbed his eyes hard enough to make
them water, before rummaging in his desk drawers for painkillers. 'What about
the others who were with him on the night he was killed?' he asked without
looking at Donnelly.
'Most have come forward now or been traced,' Donnelly answered, 'but nothing
interesting. One or two are known to police, but all for minor stuff. We've
gathered a small mountain of forensics and fingerprints for comparisons, so you
never know.'
'Maybe, but I'm not feeling particularly lucky right now,' Sean sighed. 'What
about our two missing persons?' he asked. 'What were their names again?'
'Steven Paramore and the barman, Jonnie Dempsey. We've checked at the home
addresses of both. Paramore's mum says he hasn't been home for a few days now
and Jonnie's flat mates are saying the same about him.'
'Untraceable suspects,' Sean complained. 'That's all I need.'
'Maybe this'll cheer you up.' Donnelly grinned as he dumped the heavy pile of
papers he'd been holding on Sean's desk.
Sean spread his arms in protest. 'What's this?'
'Witness statements so far, completed actions and other assorted shit that you
ought to read. Superintendent Featherstone wants a full briefing in the
morning.'
Sean sank deep into his chair, all thoughts of home comforts slipping further
and further away. It was going to be another long evening alone, with only the
image of Daniel Graydon's defiled body for company.
Hours later Sean eventually arrived home exhausted but wide awake, the worst
possible combination. He was in need of a strong drink, something that would
instantly slow his mind and body without filling his bladder. If sleep came he
didn't want it chased away by having to get up to urinate.
Kate had waited up for him. He wished she hadn't. He didn't want to talk. He
wanted a drink, a sandwich and to watch some trash on TV. He passed the living
room where his wife sat, speaking into the room as he headed for the kitchen.
'It's only me.'
After a few seconds Kate followed him into the kitchen. 'You're back late,' she
said, her tone neutral.
'I'm sorry,' Sean replied, conscious he seemed to be saying that more and more.
'You know what it's like when I get a new case [?] first few days are always a
nightmare.'
'A nightmare for who?' Kate asked, her words more provocative than she had
intended.
'I don't know,' Sean answered. 'For me? For you? For the guy who's just had his
skull smashed in, dead before his life's even started? For his parents who have
to come to terms with the fact their only child is gone and never coming back?'
An oppressive silence gripped the room. Kate took a breath. 'Are you okay?'
Sean accepted the truce. 'Yeah. Of course. I'm tired and grumpy, that's all.
Sorry. Are the kids asleep?'
'It's gone eleven. What sort of mother would I be if they weren't?' She moved
towards him. He had his back to her while he looked around for a glass. She put
her arms around his waist. He was in good shape for a man in his late thirties.
He had the physique of a middleweight boxer, a legacy from his teenage years.
The sport had been one of the things that had kept him out of trouble while too
many of his childhood friends turned to a life of crime. 'I'm glad you're
home,' she said. He leaned back into her.
'I'm glad too. Sorry. I should have called. Must have lost track of time. How's
Mandy? Will she forgive me?'
'Well, she's only three. You've plenty of time to make it up. But never mind
little Miss Mandy. What about me? How are you going to make it up to me?'
Sean was smiling slightly. 'I'll buy you a bunch of flowers.'
'Not good enough, Detective Inspector. I was thinking of something a bit more
immediate and a lot more fun.'
Kate led him to the stairs and made for their bedroom. As Sean's foot reached
the top step he heard a voice coming from Mandy's room.
'Daddy.'
He looked apologetically at his wife. 'I'd better stick my head in,' he
whispered.
Kate slipped her shirt off, her brown skin shining in the semi-dark. 'Don't be
long,' she said. 'I might fall asleep.'
Sean quietly entered Mandy's room, the night light illuminating a small
pyjama-clad figure. She grinned uncontrollably when she saw him. 'Daddy.'
'Hey, hey, sweetie. You're supposed to be asleep,' Sean reminded her.
'I was waiting for you to come home, Daddy.'
'No, you mustn't do that, because sometimes Daddy doesn't get home until very
late.'
'Why don't you get home till late, Daddy?'
'Now is not the time to talk about it, honey. We'll talk about it tomorrow.'
'Mummy says you're catching bad men.'
'Does she?' Sean said, not meaning it to be a question.
'What have the bad men done, Daddy?'
'Nothing that you should be worried about,' he lied. 'Go to sleep now. Daddy is
here. Daddy is always here.'
Sean found himself stroking her hair. He watched her eyes flicker shut, but
even when he knew she was asleep he couldn't leave her. Kate would understand.
He needed this - needed something to balance the horror of what he dealt with
day in, day out. Needed something to suppress the darkness that always lurked
just beneath the surface.
7
There were three others before the little queer. I've already told you about
the solicitor-type I stabbed in the heart. That means there are two I've not
mentioned.
The first was a young girl. Seventeen or eighteen. I'd parked forty metres from
the entrance to an abortion clinic. I didn't have to wait long. These places do
a good trade.
This clinic was in Battersea. Quite far from where I live. It was a low-rise,
modern, sandstone building. Very discreet. It was not far from Battersea Rise.
Close to Clapham Common. Nice in the summer. Lots of traffic though, and too
many mahogany-skinned migrants fleeing poverty, war and starvation.
I knew exactly what I was waiting for and then, there she was. It was a few
weeks ago and wasn't as warm as it is now. She hurried along the pavement.
Collar turned up against the mild chill as well as to hide her face. She
entered the clinic with her head bowed.
I waited for her. A couple of hours and there she came. Hurrying back along the
pavement. I could smell her shame. Probably a Catholic. I hope so.
I caught up with her soon enough, keeping pace, about five metres back. She was
too trapped in her own private hell to feel my presence. If she ever needed an
awareness of what was around her, then she needed it now. It was the only thing
that could save her.
I was close enough to see her properly now. She was slightly built. Good. And
she was clearly crying. Good. She was also alone. What type of young girl would
come here alone? Simple. One who hasn't told anybody about her little problem.
So Mummy and Daddy didn't know yet. She was perfect. All she needed to do was
keep walking in the direction we were heading. I'd already checked out several
routes away from the clinic and most had possibilities. But there was a nice
concealed railway line on this one, running under a bridge, hidden from the
road above. Close to the scene of the Clapham railway disaster.
I was wearing a raincoat I'd bought for cash from Marks & Spencer in Oxford
Street a few months ago and hadn't worn it until then. It was a common enough
coat. Nothing special. Deliberately so. I also wore brand-new plain
leather-soled men's shoes, and a pair of leather gloves nestled in the coat
pocket. A large bin liner was stuffed into the other pocket.
I had to get the next bit exactly right, or this would be over before it began.
We approached the break in the roadside wall that led down to the railway. I
put the gloves on. I had to move fast now. Anyone around and this was off.
I ran the short distance between us and punched her as hard as I could in the
centre of her back. I felt her spine give way to my fist. I heard the air rush
from her lungs. She couldn't make a sound. She dropped to her knees.
I grabbed her from behind and pulled her through the break in the wall. She was
no match for me, but I couldn't risk being caught by a flailing arm. If she had
scratched me, I would have cut her fingers off and taken them with me rather
than making a present of my skin, my DNA, for the police.
The way down to the railway lines was exactly what I'd been looking for. I
discovered it a while ago when I was out scouting for good spots. The bank fell
away steeply, but not so steep as to stop you walking down. But the best bit
was that up against the arch of the bridge there was a concrete ledge, a metre
wide, on the ground. Past that there was only soil and the dust. It meant I
could make the girl walk on the soil, hence leaving her footprints, while I
walked on the concrete in my plain shoes, leaving no footprints. It would
appear as if she walked the last walk of her pitiful life alone.
About halfway down she began to recover her breath. Couldn't have that, so I
punched her in the stomach. I wonder if it hurt more because of her abortion.
Anyway, that took the fight out of her.
I dragged her to the bottom of the bridge arch and pushed her against the side
of it. I stared into her eyes hard. They were green and beautiful. She was
terrified. The art I imagined was becoming reality. I decided she wouldn't give
me any trouble. I spoke gently.
'If you make a sound or fight or try and run, I will hurt you. Do you
understand?' I was calm.
She frantically nodded her head. Then she squeaked out a few pathetic words.
'Please. Don't rape me. Please. I've just had an operation. Please. I won't
tell anyone. Please.'
'I won't hurt you,' I promised. 'I need you to stand there quietly for a few
seconds.' I could hear the train lines begin to whistle and knew a fast train
was approaching. I peeked around the corner and saw the train flying towards
me. I'd timed this already. Once it passed the hut on the siding I had five
seconds before it hurtled past me.
I gripped the girl by her right arm with both my hands. Five. Four. Three. Two
- and I swung her out from behind the bridge arch.
It was as if she jogged out on to the line. She even managed to avoid tripping
over the first rail. She made it all the way to between the tracks.
The train that hit her must have looked huge. I saw her stiffen just before it
wiped her from the face of the planet. I wonder what she thought, if anything.
I didn't wait to see where her body landed. I quickly turned and ran up the
railway bank. I was well protected from anyone looking out of the train window.
I'd had my fun, but ultimately the poetry was lacking. The violence was too
mechanical. I hadn't been able to see her eyes or hear her last breath as the
train ripped the life from her. The work lacked feeling. No texture. No colour.
I would do better next time.
It's a shame I didn't get to her before the abortion. That would have been a
marked improvement.
I wonder where the train was going?
As I drove away, I could hear the first sirens approaching. A few days later
there was a sad little article in the Evening Standard about a girl who'd had
an abortion then killed herself by jumping in front of a train. Apparently all
parties had decided she couldn't live with the guilt. The shame. She still had
a receipt for the abortion in her pocket. The last line of the article read,
'Police are not looking for anyone else in connection with her death.'
8
Saturday morning
Sean was in his car, on his way to the station, when his phone rang. The
display showed no number. It made him cautious. He answered without giving his
name. 'Hello.'
'I need to speak with Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan.' He recognized the
voice. It was Hellier.
'This is DI Corrigan.'
'We'll do it your way, Inspector. I'll meet you today. I'll be at Belgravia
police station at two p.m. I expect absolute discretion.' Hellier hung up.
Fine, Sean thought. Pick any station you like, but come tomorrow I'll have a
set of your fingerprints, DNA and your statement. Once I have them, it's only a
matter of time before the web of lies begins to disintegrate.
Sean and Donnelly sat in their Mondeo in Ebury Bridge Road, Belgravia. They had
a good view of the front of the police station, but were far enough away not to
be seen. Sean wanted to watch Hellier as he approached, wanted to see how he
looked ahead of their meeting.
At one forty Sean and Donnelly saw Hellier striding along Buckingham Palace
Road. He fitted the affluent area perfectly. Sean focused the lens of the
camera on Hellier's face and pressed the button. 'A little present for the
surveillance boys,' he told Donnelly.
'When's that starting, by the way?'
'As soon as Featherstone authorizes it. I put in a request first thing this
morning.'
'Rather him than me,' Donnelly said, thinking of the reams of paperwork
Detective Superintendent Featherstone would have to complete before
surveillance could begin.
Hellier looked confident. He was with another man who carried a briefcase.
'I fucking knew he'd bring his brief,' said Sean.
'That'll be one expensive mouthpiece,' Donnelly replied as they watched Hellier
and his solicitor enter the station.
'We'll give it a few minutes,' Sean said. 'Let them get a bit pissed off. Then
we'll go see them. See if we can't rattle his cage.'
'Aye,' Donnelly agreed.
'Any luck with criminal records?'
'No. Nothing on criminal records or the intelligence system. He appears clean.'
'I find that hard to believe.'
'Maybe he's had an identity change,' Donnelly suggested.
'Wouldn't surprise me. A set of his prints will soon answer that.'
'Shall we dance?'
'Why not?' They climbed from their car and headed after Hellier.
Sean and Donnelly sat across the table from Hellier and his solicitor, Jonathon
Templeman, in the witness interview room.
Templeman spoke first. 'Inspector, my client has a right to know why he has
been asked to come here today.'
Sean smiled. 'You make it sound as if Mr Hellier is a suspect.'
'It feels as if he's being treated like one. Asked to come to a police station.
Of course my client wishes to cooperate, but his rights must be respected. If
he is a suspect then he needs to be informed.'
'Mr Hellier is not a suspect,' Sean told him. 'That's why we're in the witness
room, not an interview room. If Mr Hellier was a suspect, he'd have been
arrested by now.'
Sean knew the solicitor didn't believe a word he was saying. He would have
realized the police suspected his client was involved in the murder of Daniel
Graydon and he would do all he could to protect Hellier, but he wouldn't want
to force Sean's hand. Wouldn't want to precipitate Hellier's arrest.
'I don't know how much your client has told you, Mr ...' Sean looked at the
business card the solicitor had handed him '... Mr Templeman, but from my
initial conversation with Mr Hellier I know he had sexual relations with a
young man who was found murdered some days later.'
'My client's sexual orientation is not an issue here,' Templeman intervened.
'It's no longer illegal to be gay, Inspector.' He was being deliberately
provocative. He knew the best way to defend a client, whether they were guilty
or not, was to be aggressive towards the investigating officers. Show no signs
of cooperation. Never be civil. Always attack.
'Mr Templeman,' Sean said, 'I have no interest in Mr Hellier's sexuality. What
I do care about is that a young man has been murdered. Mr Hellier is an
important witness. Possibly the best I have. I need a full witness statement
and full forensic samples for elimination purposes. And his fingerprints.'
'A witness statement is out of the question.' Templeman still spoke for
Hellier. 'The body samples we agree to. We understand the need to eliminate my
client from the investigation as quickly as possible.'
Donnelly joined in. 'This isn't a shoplifting we're investigating. This is a
murder inquiry. Mr Hellier will give a full written statement and he'll do it
today.' His voice was calm.
'My client has not witnessed any offences in relation to the death of Mr
Graydon. He can provide no useful information, therefore he will not be
providing a witness statement. Such a statement would be of no use to the
police, yet it could be both embarrassing and damaging to my client.'
'Embarrassing?' Donnelly said. 'I don't care how embarrassing it could be.
Maybe you would like to meet the boy's parents. You could explain to them how
your client is more concerned about being embarrassed than he is about helping
to find their son's killer.'
'No statement.'
Sean knew Templeman meant it. 'I'll have Mr Hellier summonsed to court to give
evidence if necessary.'
'Then that's what you'll have to do, Inspector.'
'Fine,' Sean said. There was more than one way to skin a cat, but why wouldn't
Hellier make a statement? Sean didn't believe the bullshit about public
embarrassment. Hellier didn't want to say anything the police could prove was a
lie. Best to keep his mouth shut. Hide behind his expensive solicitor.
'So, no statement,' Sean said. 'Samples, you agree to?' He was looking directly
at Hellier, who remained dumb.
'I've already said we agree to body samples,' Templeman informed him.
'And fingerprints. For elimination purposes.' Sean waited for the answer,
hoping he sounded casual enough.
'Why do you need my client's fingerprints?' Templeman asked. 'I thought Mr
Hellier had made it quite clear that he'd never been in the victim's flat.
Unless you found prints on the body, which is most unlikely, I don't see why
you would want my client's fingerprints for elimination.'
Sean spoke quickly. A delay would have alerted Templeman and probably, maybe
more so, Hellier. 'Not on his body. On some cash we found in his pocket,' he
lied. 'Your client paid for sex. So unless he used a credit card, the cash
could be Mr Hellier's. It's already been chemically treated and we've been able
to recover a number of prints. If the prints aren't your client's, then they
could be the killer's.'
'Very well,' Templeman said. 'My client is prepared to provide a set of
elimination prints.'
Hellier nodded his agreement to provide his fingerprints.
'Good.' Sean called a young detective constable into the room. 'This is DC
Zukov. He'll take you to the surgeon's room where a doctor will take your body
samples, then he'll take your prints. Understand?'
Hellier didn't reply.
'I need a full set, Paulo,' Sean told DC Zukov. 'Palms and fingertips too. And
the side of his hands.'
Zukov nodded and looked at Hellier. 'If you'd like to come this way, sir.'
Templeman and Hellier followed DC Zukov from the room. Donnelly made sure they
were out of earshot.
'That was a bit of a porky-pie, boss. We don't have any fingerprints on any
cash that I know of. Could cause us problems if anyone discovers we tricked our
suspect into giving his prints - like the CPS, for example.'
Sean wasn't concerned. 'Fuck 'em. I'll cross that bridge when and if I come to
it. Right now, I want his prints in case we get lucky at the scene.'
'He seems pretty confident he's never been inside Graydon's flat,' Donnelly
reminded him.
'Yeah, but we only need him to have made one mistake, just one mistake and
we'll be able to put him in the flat, and then I'll have him.'
'You're sure it's him, aren't you?'
'I don't know. The more I see him, the more I'm next to him, the more sure I am
he's hiding something. But it's almost as if this is a game to him - as if he's
somehow enjoying it. I don't know, but there's something ...' Sean didn't
finish his thought.
'Maybe you just really want it to be him?' Donnelly argued. 'Maybe you just
don't like the smug bastard with his expensive brief.'
'No,' Sean answered quietly without looking at Donnelly. 'I can feel his guilt.'
'Guilt, aye,' Donnelly agreed. 'But guilt for the death of Daniel Graydon?'
'I don't know,' Sean admitted, 'but I've got a very strong feeling James
Hellier and I are going to cross swords again, and soon.'
9
James Hellier left Belgravia police station two hours later, only slightly
annoyed at being kept longer than necessary. Feeling pleased with himself, he
indulged in a little smile. He hoped his solicitor hadn't noticed.
They walked along the road a short way. Hellier felt certain he was being
followed by the police. No matter. No need to tell Templeman. No need to tell
anyone.
So the police had samples from his body. The detective constable had made sure
the doctor was thorough: blood, saliva, semen, hair of various types. All for
elimination purposes. All taken voluntarily. The detective had had a strange
name. Paulo Zukov. Hellier had been tempted to ask him if he was more wop than
Slav, or the other way around. He had managed not to.
Hellier and Templeman shook hands and went their separate ways. Templeman
clearly had no notion that Hellier might be anything other than an innocent man
dragged into somebody else's mess. God bless lawyers. They pump them full of
some serious self-importance bullshit in law school. They all think they're in
a John Grisham novel, protecting the innocent from their oppressors.
They'd taken his fingerprints too. He'd known Corrigan was lying about finding
prints on the victim's money, even if his solicitor had not. It was unfortunate
he had to give them, but he had foreseen it. It wouldn't be a problem. It
mustn't be a problem. It wasn't.
Sean and Donnelly watched Hellier leave the same way they'd watched him arrive.
They watched him shake hands with Templeman and move off. Hellier looked over
his shoulder back towards them and walked on.
Donnelly broke the silence. 'He thinks we're following him.'
'Not yet, we're not,' Sean replied. 'I just got a message from Featherstone -
surveillance starts tomorrow. What about the other men the victim had sex with?
Have we spoken to all of them now?'
'We have. They came forward of their own accord. They're not happy about
admitting to paying for sex, but not exactly ashamed either.'
'Not like Hellier,' Sean stated rather than asked.
'No. The others seem straightforward. They've provided statements, prints and
samples, no problem. None of the lads who interviewed them get any sort of
feeling. We'll run them all through the system anyway, but no one looks
interesting.'
'Any sign of a boyfriend?' Sean asked. 'No matter what I think of Hellier, I
still have to consider that possibility.'
'According to his friends, there was no boyfriend, now or in the recent past,
other than the possibility he was seeing our missing barman, Jonnie Dempsey.'
'And further back? No jilted John with an axe to grind?'
'Apparently not. It appears Daniel was more careful with his private life than
he was with his business one.'
'Anything else?' Sean asked.
'I took the liberty of sending out a national circular, asking if other forces
have come across any murders similar to ours.'
'And?'
'And nothing. Our little shop of horrors appears to be unique.'
'So,' Sean said, 'Hellier's still our main man. Until I say different.'
Donnelly opened the car door unexpectedly. 'Going somewhere nice?'
'I just want to check on Paulo. Make sure everything went okay.'
'Don't worry about Paulo. He knows what he's doing.' Sean trusted Paulo. He
trusted all his team.
'All the same. I'll not sleep tonight if I don't check.'
Sean wasn't used to seeing Donnelly so concerned. 'Okay, check. I'll wait here.
And ask him if he needs a lift.'
Donnelly was gone. Sean watched him running across the road, dodging the
traffic. He moved pretty well for a big man.
DC Zukov waited for Donnelly in the basement toilet of Belgravia police
station. He was relieved to finally see Donnelly's considerable frame enter,
shrinking the room. Donnelly stopped in front of the large mirror and began to
comb his scruffy salt-and-pepper hair with his hands.
'There's no one else in here. We're fine,' Zukov assured him.
'Then why you fucking whispering?'
Zukov spoke normally. 'I don't know. It's just I'm not used to talking to
strange men in public toilets.'
'I hope not, young man.' In an instant Donnelly's tone became more serious.
'Did you get what I asked?'
Zukov smiled. He put his hand in his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a
small plastic evidence bag containing two hairs that only minutes earlier had
been plucked from Hellier's scalp. He handed it to Donnelly, who snatched it
away. 'I take it the official samples have been sealed accordingly?' he asked.
'As you requested,' Zukov told him. 'Everything's been bagged and tagged
properly. These are the little extras you wanted kept off the books.'
'Good.' Donnelly opened an empty metal cigarette case and folded the bag
carefully, making sure he didn't bend the contents. He put the bag in the case
and snapped it shut. He tucked it into his blazer pocket and patted it. 'Just
to be on the safe side. You never know when you're gonna need a helping hand.'
'You gonna leave them in Graydon's place to be found by the forensic boys or
you got some other idea how to use them?' Zukov asked.
'I'm not going to do anything with them,' said Donnelly. 'Not yet anyway.'
'Why? What you waiting for?'
Donnelly puffed out his chest and raised himself to his full height. 'Listen
up, son. These are the three rules of life according to Dave Donnelly: Number
one - never accept a bribe, no matter how skint you are. Number two - never fit
up an innocent member of the public. Villains, fine, but never Joe Public.
Number three - never, absolutely never, fit anyone up for murder unless you're
absolutely positive they did it and it's absolutely necessary to get them off
the streets. Understand?'
'So you're not positive Hellier's our man?'
'No. Not yet. He's not our only suspect either, remember? Now drop this lot off
at the lab before it closes, then run his fingerprints up to the Yard. The
guv'nor wants them compared to marks from the scene tout suite, so don't take
no for an answer. Understand?'
'Not a problem,' Zukov replied. 'And what will you be up to?'
Donnelly looked him up and down before answering. 'Not that it's any of your
fucking business, but I thought I'd head back to the nick with the guv'nor, see
if I can't find out what's going on in that head of his.'
'Problems?' Zukov asked.
'I'm not sure yet. Let's just say I get the feeling the man's not telling me
everything he knows.'
At about 5 p.m. Sean was back at his desk ploughing through emails and
paperwork, oblivious to the chatter and ringing phones in the incident room. A
detective constable whom everyone called Bruce knocked on his door frame,
somewhat startling him.
'Fingerprints returning your call, guv'nor,' he said without enthusiasm, but
Sean felt his heart jump and his stomach sink. He crossed the office and took
the phone.
'DI Corrigan speaking. You can give the results to me.'
'I don't have the results yet,' the anonymous voice replied. 'The marks from
the scene are still being worked up. Identification Officer Collins is working
that case. He'll run comparisons to your scene as soon as he can, starting with
the various elimination prints you've sent us. If you're lucky, they'll be
ready by Monday or Tuesday.'
'This is a murder investigation,' Sean reminded him. 'I need them yesterday.'
'Sorry,' said the voice. 'Monday or Tuesday is the absolute earliest they'll be
ready. Listen, we're snowed under here. Anti-Terrorist Unit just landed a rush
job on us. We've been told to make it a priority, no exceptions. Sorry.'
Sean understood. It was an unavoidable sign of the times. 'Okay. Thanks. You
can get him to call me direct with the results. One more thing,' Sean quickly
added before the line went dead. 'Can you check for a set of conviction
fingerprints for someone for me?'
'Sure,' came the answer. 'What's the name?'
Sean was unaware that Donnelly had moved within earshot. 'James Hellier. Do you
need a date of birth?'
'No. The name's probably unusual enough. Give me a minute.' Sean waited, the
two or three minutes that passed feeling so much longer, before finally the
voice spoke. 'No. No prints for that name here.'
Sean felt the emptiness of disappointment. 'No problem,' he managed to say, and
hung up.
Donnelly cut through his state of melancholy. 'Interesting line of inquiry.'
'Meaning?'
'Asking Fingerprints if Hellier had a set of conviction prints on file, given
that we already know he doesn't have any convictions. Remember, I checked.'
'I thought I'd double check,' Sean said. 'I thought maybe his conviction never
got sent from the court, or someone forgot to put it on the PNC. Worth a try.'
'I see, belt and braces, eh. Any luck?'
'No,' Sean answered. 'Hellier's clean.'
Hellier sat in his study watching for movements in the American money markets
on his computer. His wife popped her head around the door without warning, but
she wouldn't enter fully before asking. Elizabeth knew when to leave him alone;
it was part of her role as the perfect wife and she was paid well. She liked
her life.
'Are you okay in here, darling?' she asked.
'I'm fine, sweetheart. Just catching up on a bit of work. I won't be long.
Promise.' He threw her a charming smile.
'You work too hard. It's almost ten o'clock.'
'Go to bed. I'm fine.'
'Don't stay up too late, darling.'
'I won't.'
His wife blew him a kiss and left. Time to make a phone call.
Hellier slid his hand under the desk and peeled a piece of tape from the
underside. He examined the two keys stuck to the tape, then pulled one free and
carried it across the office to the built-in walnut cabinets. He listened for
sounds outside the office before opening the cabinet door and kneeling on the
floor. He pulled the carpet back to reveal a floor safe sealed into the
concrete foundation of the house. He unlocked the safe with one of the keys and
took out a small address book. He locked the safe, closed the cabinet and went
back to his desk. He found the number he was looking for and dialled. After a
few ringing tones the phone was answered by a sleepy voice. 'Hello? Hello?
Christ.'
Hellier spoke. 'It's me.'
Hellier was met by silence. Then the voice spoke with urgency. 'Please tell me
you're calling from a public phone.'
Hellier could hear the fear. 'Don't worry about that. We've more important
things to discuss.'
'Like what?'
'Like are you sure you took care of things? You wouldn't have been lying to me,
would you?'
'Jesus Christ. Why are you asking me this? I took care of it. I told you. Why
the panic? Have you fucked up?' The voice sounded calmer.
'No, but your flat-footed friends are making trouble for me. It's important I
know you did what you were paid to do.'
The voice was silent. Hellier gave the person time to think. After a few
seconds the voice returned, almost whispering now, nervous. 'Christ! They
haven't connected you to Korsakov, have they?' The mention of that name made
Hellier lean back into his comfortable chair and smile, as if he was recalling
a happy childhood memory. Stefan Korsakov. A name he hadn't heard in ages.
'Have the police connected you to Korsakov?' the voice demanded impatiently.
'No,' Hellier answered, still calm and smiling, 'and they never will.
Korsakov's never coming back. I made sure of that a long time ago. Don't you
remember? You should do. After all, you helped me bury him.'
The voice snapped back. 'If you've fucked up, you're on your own. I won't help
you again.'
Hellier needed to remind him. 'If they take me down, I'll make sure you come
with me. Keep that in mind.' He hung up before the voice could answer.
The voice had sounded genuine enough. Time would tell if he was speaking the
truth. For both their sakes, Hellier hoped he was.
10
Sunday morning
Shortly before 8 a.m. Sean arrived at work and Sally pounced on him
immediately. 'Guv'nor.'
'What is it, Sally?'
She spoke in a whisper. 'Superintendent Featherstone's been floating around
asking for you.'
Sean rolled his eyes. 'Thanks for the warning.' No sooner had he entered his
office than he heard a knock on the side of the open door. He walked to his
chair and sat down before looking around. 'Morning, boss. Aren't you supposed
to be at church?' He pointed at a chair.
Featherstone accepted the invitation, sinking into the visitor's chair with a
slight groan. He was a tall man, over six foot two, heavily built, with red
hair. 'I haven't been to church since my second wife left me.' He spoke with no
more than a trace of London in his accent. 'How's the Graydon investigation
going? Any progress for me?'
Featherstone had hardly any detective experience, rising instead through the
ranks as an accelerated promotion candidate, but he had hit a ceiling at
superintendent after failing or refusing to become one of the new generic breed
of senior officers in the Met. He was a little too rough around the edges; a
little too outspoken and far too prepared to get his hands dirty. Realizing he
could go no higher, he transferred into the CID.
Sean could do business with the man. He knew Featherstone was shrewd enough not
to interfere too much with the way he conducted his investigations and that he
would watch Sean's back more than most.
'We're still waiting on forensics and fingerprints.'
'How about other lines of inquiry? Any witnesses?'
'We've spoken with a number of witnesses from the club. Some have supplied
statements and elimination samples. Nothing of interest so far. The killer went
to a lot of trouble to avoid leaving forensic evidence at the scene. It looks
premeditated. Our best chance for now seems to be James Hellier, the potential
blackmail target.'
'Any solid proof yet that the victim was blackmailing him?'
'No. Hellier's clever. He's covered his tracks well. That's why I requested
authorization for round-the-clock surveillance - it could be our only hope of
catching him out.'
'What about the victim?' Featherstone asked. 'If you can turn up some blackmail
letters, prove he was trying to screw Hellier, then you'd be halfway there.'
'Nothing on paper from the victim's flat. The bods have his computer, but it'll
take time to recover his emails.'
'Any other credible suspects?'
'Well, one of the barmen from the club's gone missing. Apparently he knew the
victim and possibly could have been romantically linked to him. Other than that
we're trying to find a recently released nutter who did eight years for the
attempted murder of a young gay man. He lives close enough to the scene to be a
cause for concern. He also appears to have gone missing.'
'At the very least they need to be found and eliminated.'
'They will be.'
'We need to be careful with this one, Sean. You can bet, with a gay victim,
someone, somewhere will be watching the investigation's progress, waiting for a
chance to accuse us of being homophobic. Let's not hand the media a stick to
beat us with.'
'I'll bear that in mind,' said Sean.
'Speaking of the media,' Featherstone asked, 'what about an appeal? Crimewatch?
Save some shoe leather and let the television do the donkey work.'
'It's a bit too soon for that. I'd rather no one knew what we're up to just
yet.'
'You still camera shy?' Featherstone smiled. 'If it comes to it, I can take
care of that side of things. I know you're not exactly a fan, but I've got some
people in the media I can trust. We can do a piece for the papers and try to
get a slot on Crimewatch. I'll have my secretary make a few calls.'
'No need. I'll get it arranged and let you know when the telly people want you.
Should be able to sort it out in a day or so.' Sean hoped he'd bought some time.
Featherstone got to his feet. 'Fine. Let my secretary know the time and place
and I'll be there. You can give me a full briefing beforehand.'
'Not a problem.'
'I'd better get myself up the Yard. Commissioner's called an emergency meeting.
On a Sunday [?] can you believe that?'
'Sounds like trouble.'
'Bloody Territorial Support Group, kicked the shit out of some student on the
last anti-capitalist march. Turns out the kid's parents are connected, so now
we're all going to be issued with foam truncheons. Wankers.' Featherstone
looked to the heavens and walked from the office heading for the exit.
Sally appeared at Sean's door. 'Problems?'
'No,' Sean told her. 'Not yet.'
Donnelly ate his sausage sandwich. It was the best Sunday-morning breakfast he
could hope for under the circumstances. He stood close to the small wooden hut
in the middle of Blackheath where he'd bought his sandwich. It was a well-known
spot, used mainly by hungry taxi drivers and police looking for a place to talk
without being overheard.
He enjoyed the gentle cooling breeze that whipped off the flat, wide heath. In
winter, it was the coldest place in London. He spotted the dark blue Mondeo
pull up opposite. Detective Sergeants Jimmy Dawson and Raj Samra stepped from
the car. They could only have been police.
The detective sergeants worked on the other two murder teams in South London.
They carried out the same roles on their teams as Donnelly did on his. Meeting
regularly helped maintain the strong bond between detective sergeants and
engendered a feeling that they were the ones really running the police.
Donnelly smiled to himself and stuffed the remains of the sandwich into his
mouth. He waited for the men to cross the road. 'For Christ's sake, Raj. You're
the only Indian in the Met who looks more like a copper than Jimmy here.'
'I like looking like a copper. You should try it some time. Instead of looking
like a bag of shit,' Raj replied.
The trading of insults was routine. Jimmy joined the conversation. 'What you
doing in the middle of Blackheath on a Sunday morning, Dave? Exposing yourself
to students again? If it isn't that, then I'll assume you want a favour.'
'Jimmy, Jimmy.' Donnelly sounded insulted. 'Are the best sausage sandwiches in
London not a good enough reason for you?' Dawson didn't reply. 'And you, Raj.
Thinking I would ask for favours. Me. Dave Donnelly.'
'Well, I don't eat pork, so it better be something other than the sandwich.'
'I didn't know you were a Muslim,' Donnelly said.
'I'm not. I'm a Sikh.'
'You should wear a turban [?] you'd be a commander by now.'
'I'm not interested in playing that game,' said Samra.
Donnelly gave a short stunted laugh, before his face turned serious. 'Okay,
gentlemen, I'll assume you know what sort of case my team's working on. I want
to know if anything similar comes up. If one of your teams gets it first, I
want to be called to the scene immediately. Understand?'
'If it looks linked, it'll be passed to your team anyway. What's the rush?'
Dawson asked.
'No,' Donnelly snapped. 'I didn't say I want my team informed immediately. I
said I wanted to be informed immediately, before anyone else. Including DI
Corrigan.'
Donnelly watched them exchange glances. He knew they would be happy to help,
but not if it meant being dragged into a dangerous situation. Dangerous for
their careers. He understood their concerns.
'Don't look so worried, boys.' He tried to sound less serious. 'I just want
first crack at any new scenes. I'm getting a taste for this case. I need a wee
glance at an uncorrupted scene. You know, before the circus arrives and takes
the feel out the place. That's all.' His fellow detective sergeants stared at
him blankly, their way of letting him know they didn't believe a word he was
saying. 'Okay, for fuck's sake. You boys drive a hard bargain. Listen, our
prime suspect is a clever, slippery bastard. Any forensic evidence we find at
the next scene may require a little helping hand, if you catch my drift. But it
has to appear genuine. The forensic boys have to find it, not one of my team,
so I'll need to be in and out of there before anyone's the wiser. Clear?'
'Well why didn't you just say so?' Samra mocked. 'We'd be happy to help,' he
added, and meant it, knowing that one day he or Dawson might require a similar
favour from Donnelly.
'I thought your job was shaping up to be a blackmail?' Dawson asked.
'I know Corrigan better than he thinks,' Donnelly told them. 'He thinks there's
more to our prime suspect than he's saying. Forget the blackmail element. You
get anything a bit nastier than usual, then I want to know.'
'Okay,' Samra said with a shrug. 'I'll make sure you're called straight off.'
'Good, but keep it quiet. Tell your teams to call you, then you call me. Keep
it nicely between the three of us.'
'If you want to take jobs off my hands, that's fine and dandy with me,' Dawson
said. 'But if anyone asks, we never had this conversation.'
Donnelly spread his arms to show his good intentions. 'Boys, please,' he
pleaded. 'I promise. Nothing dodgy. Trying to solve a murder here, that's all.'
The two detectives were already crossing the road. Samra called back to
Donnelly: 'Drag me into anything naughty and you'll be solving your own fucking
murder.'
You just do as you're told, Raj my boy, Donnelly thought to himself. Just do as
you're told.
It was mid-morning by the time Sean walked from his office into the briefing
room where his team were assembled. He wasn't in the mood to let the room
settle naturally. Time to push along. 'All right, all right. Listen up. I
haven't got all day. The quicker you listen, the quicker we can get on with
it.' The room settled into silence. 'So far we have three possible suspects:
Steven Paramore, Jonnie Dempsey the missing barman and James Hellier. The
reasons why Paramore and Dempsey are suspects are obvious, so they need to be
found and spoken to. Hellier's more complicated,' Sean told them. 'My best
guess is still that our victim was attempting to blackmail him. No other
motives have come to light and we've pretty much spoken to all his friends and
family. Any last lingering possibility that this could be a domestic hangs on
whether the victim was having a relationship with Jonnie Dempsey, and so far no
one's been able to confirm whether he was or wasn't. Dempsey is only a suspect
in so far as he worked at Utopia, knew the victim and now he's missing and
can't be found, so all other suggestions are welcome.'
'Maybe we should consider a stranger attack,' Donnelly spoke up. 'A random
killer.'
'No forced entry, remember?' Sean reminded him.
'Maybe the killer posed as a client?' Donnelly suggested. 'Talked his way into
the flat.'
Sean was beginning to suspect Donnelly knew his blackmail theory was little
more than a smokescreen. A screen that allowed Sean time to think. Time to walk
in the killer's shoes - to feel him. To understand him. 'From what we're being
told of our victim, he was too careful for that.' Sean tried to steer Donnelly
away from the possibility for a while longer, until he had things straight in
his own mind.
'But it has to be a possibility?' Donnelly insisted.
He had to give Donnelly something. 'Possibly,' Sean answered. There was a
ripple of noise around the room.
'If it's a possibility, then what are we doing about it?' Sally asked.
'We've released a national memorandum, police eyes only, checking for recent
similar cases,' Sean reminded them.
'Maybe we should go further back?' Sally suggested.
'As it happens, I've already asked General Registry to send me a number of old
files.' He sensed Donnelly's discontent. 'I've asked them for anything
involving vulnerable victims where an excessive use of violence was involved,
going back over the last five years. But don't get too excited, we're doing
these checks as a matter of protocol, not because I think we have a madman on
our hands.'
'That'll be a lot of files,' said Donnelly. 'You'll need some help going over
them.'
'No,' Sean snapped. 'I'll read them myself.'
'What about Method Index?' Sally asked. 'They may have data the General
Registry doesn't. Something older or something that never made it to court.'
'Good,' Sean said. 'Look into it, Sally. Take some help if you think you'll
need it.'
'And Hellier?' Donnelly asked. 'What about Hellier?'
'Surveillance started on him this morning,' Sean told them. 'Link up with them
as soon as you can and keep them on the right track.' Donnelly nodded without
speaking. He didn't seem too happy. Sean raised his voice slightly. 'Don't lose
focus, people. Hellier is still our prime suspect and blackmail our prime
motive. We'll look into other possibilities because we have to, but I don't
want anyone going off on a wild-goose chase when we have an obvious suspect
right in front of us. As for Paramore and Dempsey, let's get hold of Customs
and Immigration - see if either have left or tried to leave the country.
Paulo.' DC Zukov raised his head. 'You take care of it, okay?' Zukov nodded
once. 'We've all got work to do, so let's get on with it.' The meeting broke up.
Sean reached his office just as Donnelly caught up with him. He knew Donnelly
would want an explanation.
'Are you going to tell me what's really going through your mind?' Donnelly
asked.
'Let's not make a drama out of it, Dave.'
'How long have you known this wasn't about Hellier being blackmailed?'
Sean closed the door to his office. 'I don't.'
'Come on, guv'nor. Protocol, my arse. If you've requested old files from
General Registry then you're looking for something else.'
Sean sighed. He could see no sense in keeping anything from Donnelly any more.
'All right. Hellier wasn't being blackmailed, but I still think he could be our
man. The second time I met him I really began to believe it could be him.'
'Can I ask why?'
'Graydon wouldn't have tried to blackmail him. From what we've learned about
him, he was too passive to attempt blackmail. Especially someone like Hellier.
He's too intimidating. Too threatening.'
'Then why have you got the team chasing the blackmail theory, not to mention
Paramore and Dempsey?'
'I need to make things appear straightforward, just for a while longer. It'll
buy me time to think the way I need to think. Once I show my hand, things will
get a lot more complicated around here. I can't see clearly when I'm crowded,
and besides, Paramore and Dempsey must be found and spoken to. I could turn out
to be wrong about Hellier.'
'So you don't think Hellier was being blackmailed, but you do think he could
have killed Graydon.'
'I do.'
'Care to share?'
'Because I don't believe in coincidences. Hellier's bad to the core. It's
simply in his nature. You know the type of animal I'm talking about. We've both
dealt with them before. And now someone Hellier was connected to is dead.
'If I'm right about him, then his motive for killing is the killing itself.
He's a very rare breed; the chances that Graydon crossed two such people are
extremely remote, although not impossible.'
Donnelly slumped in a chair, exasperated. 'Bloody hell, guv, this is all a bit
loose. You wouldn't want to take it to court.'
'Agreed, but there's another way to go after Hellier. He has no anxiety about
this case. When I speak to him about it I can't feel anything. No panic,
concerns, doubt, nothing. He's absolutely sure he's got away with it.'
'If he did it,' Donnelly reminded him. Sean ignored the warning.
'He was at his most confident when we were talking about the Graydon case. So
long as we stuck to that, he was totally in his comfort zone. That tells me
he's left us very little, if anything.'
'But?'
'But at other times I've sensed his anxiousness.'
'About what?'
'About something else. Something that could betray him.' Sean sat and faced
Donnelly. 'Something in his past. Maybe he's--'
'You think he's killed before?' Donnelly interrupted.
'If he's the type of animal I think he is, then there is a very real
possibility he has. When I read the old case files from General Registry,
hopefully some detail will stand out.'
'You are aware of what you're saying?'
'Of course I am.' Sean looked him in the eye. 'That's why this has to stay
between the two of us for now. I'll fill Sally in when I get a chance.'
'God forbid the powers that be find out you reckon you're on to a serial
killer. This place will go fucking crazy with senior officers trying to get
their faces on the telly.'
'Then they better not find out.'
'Indeed,' Donnelly agreed as he stood up. 'But there's one thing that still
doesn't make sense to me.'
'Go on.'
'Why would Hellier kill Graydon if he knew we could connect them? Why would he
pull us on top of him like that? Is he trying to play games with us? Is he one
of those sick fuckers who wants to get caught?'
'No,' Sean answered. 'Hellier absolutely doesn't want to get caught. Trust me.
There is nothing self-destructive about Hellier.'
'Then why?'
'For one of two reasons. Because he wanted to or because he had to.'
'Well?' Donnelly asked, his hands held apart. 'Which one is it?'
'I don't know,' Sean confessed. 'I just don't know. I keep going over it and
over it, but every time I think I'm close to understanding why, it all melts
away. There's something not quite right, something I'm missing. Christ it's so
close I could fucking touch it, but I can't see it yet.'
'We'll find out why soon enough,' said Donnelly.
'To be honest, with Hellier I'm not so sure.' The doubt was unusual for Sean.
'That's why we go after his past. Identify his earlier offences. That's where
he's vulnerable. I'm certain of it.'
'If indeed he has offended before.'
'He has,' Sean insisted. 'There's no doubt. All I need to know is who, where
and when. And why the hell his prints aren't on file.'
'I don't know, boss,' Donnelly admitted. 'This all feels like a bit of a
stretch for me. Maybe we shouldn't be homing in on Hellier so much? Stretch our
horizons a little. See if we can't rake up a few more viable suspects.'
'You think I'm fixating on Hellier?' Sean snapped. 'You think I'm putting the
investigation at risk?'
'That's not what I said.'
'But it's what you're thinking.' Sean regretted the words as soon as they'd
left his mouth. He wished he could explain to Donnelly how he could be so
certain of something long before the evidence justified it. How he'd seen the
killer strutting around Daniel Graydon's flat, calm and content, the dead man
lying in an ever-increasing pool of blood, of no concern to him now - an empty
shell that had served its purpose. But he knew he couldn't tell Donnelly what
he had seen. He couldn't tell Donnelly that when he looked into Hellier's face
he saw more than just skin, bone and flesh - he saw into the man's soul and
could see only darkness.
Sally walked into New Scotland Yard, a huge glass building just around the
corner from Parliament Square. Standard searches of criminal intelligence and
conviction databases had yielded nothing. It was time to try something a little
different, which was why she'd come to check the Method Index. They kept
records of serious and violent crimes, as well as unusual crimes. If an
offender used the same peculiar method more than once, it was possible he or
she could be identified here. Sally walked into the Method Index office and
glanced around the small beige room. Wooden desks were squeezed together.
Ancient, worn-out computers filled every corner. Large posters adorned the
walls advertising what the department could do for you. Everything seemed old.
The two people in the room looked surprised to have a visitor. One, a thin,
bespectacled, middle-aged man nervously closed the filing cabinet he'd been
tending and hesitantly moved towards Sally. He spoke shyly.
'Are you looking for somebody?' He had a Yorkshire accent, unblunted by years
in London.
Sally realized they didn't get many visitors. 'Well, if this is Method Index, I
guess I've found the right place.' She tried to sound enthusiastic. 'DS Sally
Jones, from Serious Crime Group South.' She held out her hand and hoped the
mention of her unit might stir some interest. The nervous man seemed confused.
'The Murder Squad,' Sally added. 'SCG is the Murder Squad.'
'Oh,' the man said. 'That's what you're called now. They keep changing the
names of things so much I can never keep up.' He accepted the offer of Sally's
outstretched hand and shook it with a smile. 'I'm DC Harvey Williams. Everyone
calls me Harve. They put me in charge of this little team a few years ago and I
think they've forgotten about me, to be honest.' He pointed at a young man with
long hair who was sifting through an ocean of paper files. 'That's Doug. He's a
civilian. The rest of the team are off today. In fact, the only reason anyone's
here is because we're moving all our old paper files on to the computers. We
don't get much of a chance for overtime here, so when they offered ...'
So this was the Met's answer to the world-famous FBI Behavioral Science Unit.
An ageing detective constable the world had forgotten about and a handful of
unqualified civilian employees. She may have made a mistake coming here, but on
the other hand what did she have to lose apart from an afternoon?
DC Williams continued. 'How can we help you, DS Jones?'
'I'm interested in any profiles of murderers that fit our case.'
Williams pursed his lips. 'We don't do profiles here, I'm afraid. We have
methods of crime used by people. Not profiles of them.'
Sally understood the difference. A profile referred to a psychological profile
of an offender. It was rarely used by the Metropolitan Police. Despite being
highly publicized in the media and films, the truth was that psychological
profiles were of very limited value. Matching methods of crime to offenders was
far more useful.
'I apologize. Slip of the tongue.'
'No need to apologize,' he said cheerfully. 'Grab a seat. Anywhere you like. No
small-time imperialists in this office. Now, tell me what you're after. Spare
me no details. The devil's always in the details. Absolutely always in the
details.'
London steamed. Sean couldn't remember another summer like it. No rain. No
wind. No relief. The devil's own weather. His mobile was ringing. He kept
driving and answered. 'DI Corrigan.'
'Hello, guv'nor.' It was Donnelly. 'Just to let you know, I'm with the
surveillance team. Making sure they don't spend a week following the wrong man.'
'Good. Any movement from Hellier?'
'Nah. He's still at home. He hasn't been out anywhere yet. He's only looked out
the window once. Didn't seem to be checking for us, though.'
'I'm coming to join you,' Sean announced. 'I'll call your mobile when I'm in
the area. If he moves, ring me.' He hung up.
Donnelly turned to DC Paulo Zukov sitting next to him. Zukov spoke. 'Problem?'
'Nah, but be aware. The guv'nor's on his way.'
'So what makes you think Method Index can help with your murder?' DC Williams
asked. 'Unusual, is it?'
'A little unusual,' Sally replied. 'The victim was stabbed an excessively large
number of times, having already been half-killed with a couple of blows to the
head. The weapon used was an ice pick or stiletto knife of some sort. More
importantly, the victim was a homosexual. Almost certainly a male prostitute.
'I'm not interested in someone with a history of homophobic behaviour per se.
I'm looking for something heavier. Really violent attacks. Possibly sexual
attacks or attacks that could have some sexual overtones. Anything like that.
Can you help?'
'We can work with that. As for the drunken queer-bashing stuff, we wouldn't
have that sort of attack on our records anyway. Not distinct enough.'
DC Williams walked over to a large grey cabinet in a corner of the office. He
talked as he thumbed through the files within. 'Some of our records go back
fifty years or so. The really sensitive ones. Preferred methods of terrorists,
professional hit men, that sort of thing. But mostly our records refer to sex
offenders, paedophiles. People most likely to re-offend. We don't have too many
murderers. Most are such dull affairs, one-off acts of stupidity. But you would
already know that.'
Sally was relieved. She didn't fancy spending the entire day reading through
ancient files in the cramped office.
'We've only got a few hundred on record,' Williams added, grinning. Sally
slumped. 'Shouldn't take too long if we both look through them.'
He pulled out as many files as he could manage and carried them to Sally's
desk. 'That's the last decade of interesting murders of homosexuals.
Unfortunately, most of our records haven't been transferred on to the computer
system yet, so if you have a look at this little lot, I'll see what we have got
on our computerised records.' He began to whistle as he tapped away on the
terminal's keyboard.
Sally took off her jacket and pushed all the files to one side of the desk. She
picked the first one at random and began to read.
Hellier knew they were there. He could sense their presence. He couldn't see
them from his study, but it made no difference. They were there. They were
good. Not clumsy. Not impatient. He wondered how many would be on the
surveillance team. They called the officers on motorbikes Solos. Pathetic
police jargon. Still, he had a problem. Things would get difficult if he was
followed everywhere by these flat-footed fools. DI Corrigan was responsible, no
doubt. Christ he was an irritating fucker. How best to deal with DI Corrigan?
Time to make another phone call. Maybe he would go for a run a little later,
weaving through the Sunday crowds in Upper Street's antique market before
jumping on and off a few buses and underground trains, laughing at the police
as they struggled and ultimately failed to keep up with him.
He spoke to the police he couldn't see.
'I hope you're prepared for a long day, fuckers. You'll have to improve your
play, if you want to win the prize.'
Sally carefully read the first dozen files. It was clear why these particular
murders had been deemed unique enough for Method Index's files of infamy. Some
were almost funny they were so bizarre, but most were just horrific.
Her thoughts began to drift to the victims. Had they had any idea of what was
going to happen to them? Had they been scared, confused or even angry once they
realized death was upon them? And why had they been selected? What had drawn
their killers to them? The way they looked, moved or spoke? Or was it pure bad
luck? The wrong place at the wrong time? Probably a little of each.
She'd been reading for over three hours. A couple of times something pricked
her attention, but each time her interest faded away as she uncovered details
inconsistent with what she was looking for. DC Williams's voice broke her
concentration.
'DS Jones ...'
'What is it?' Sally asked.
'I think you should take a look at this. I may have found something.'
Sean had joined up with Donnelly and Zukov. The three men sat quietly in the
unmarked Mondeo. Sean sat in the back staring out of the window, constantly
re-evaluating the evidence, searching for anything he could have overlooked.
The radio crackled into life with the voices of the surveillance team. 'Target
one still stationary in blue.'
'Lima Two breaking for a natural.'
'Received, Lima Two.'
'Lima Three will cover.'
'Received, Lima Three.'
Donnelly spoke for them all. 'If Hellier moves off, I hope they stop chattering
in that language of theirs, because I for one can't understand a bloody word
they're saying.'
Sean's mobile rang. He answered it quickly. 'DI Corrigan.'
'Guv'nor? Sally here.'
Sean sensed an increased degree of excitement in her voice. 'You sound like you
have something for me.'
'I think I might have.'
Sean checked his watch. It was almost lunchtime. He was hoping to spend most of
the day following Hellier. He felt as if the longer he was close to the man,
the more he could think like him. 'Can it wait till morning?'
'I suppose so,' Sally answered.
It was no good though and he knew it. If he didn't find out what Sally had, he
would never rest. 'Can you give it to me down the phone?'
'Sorry, sir. I'm driving and I need to show you this file. You'll want to see
it.'
'Okay,' he conceded. 'Dave and I will meet you back at Peckham as soon as,
travelling time from Islington.'
'I'll be there.'
'Developments?' Donnelly asked over his shoulder.
'Possibly. We need to get back to the office and meet Sally. The surveillance
boys can handle this on their own.'
Their car pulled into the heavy North London traffic and slipped away seemingly
unnoticed.
Sean leaned against the window frame. Sally sat on a standard-issue police
station chair, wooden and rickety. Donnelly also chose to stand.
Sally rested a cardboard folder in her lap. She reminded Sean of a
schoolteacher about to read a story. 'I dug this out of Method Index's files
earlier today,' she told them. 'We entered the details of our murder into the
system, looking for any similar crimes or methods. Eventually it threw up this
character.'
Sally opened the folder and pulled out a criminal records file. 'This is for a
guy called Stefan Korsakov.' She passed the printout to Sean, who quickly
scanned the list of convictions. It didn't take long.
'Why? The man's only got one conviction. For fraud. And that was almost ten
years ago.' Sean was puzzled. He shook his head and passed the printout to
Donnelly.
Sally continued: 'Convictions yes, but Method Index don't only go on
convictions. Here -' Sally pulled a thick bunch of papers from the folder. Sean
recognized the old-style forms. 'Stefan Korsakov was accused of raping a
seventeen-year-old boy back in 1996. The victim had a slight learning
difficulty. Nothing serious apparently, but it made him a little naive.
'Korsakov approached the boy while he was riding his bike around Richmond Park.
He befriended him, gave him a can of beer laced with a stronger alcohol, then
dragged him into a secluded area of the park, tied him up, gagged him and
sexually abused him in just about every way possible, climaxing with the actual
rape.
'But the fact this was a violent assault by a predatory older male wasn't the
only similarity. He used a stiletto knife to threaten the boy.'
'Similar to the weapon used on our victim,' Sean said.
'Well, well,' Donnelly added.
Sally wasn't finished. 'But Korsakov's luck ran out. He spent too long with the
boy. A constable from the Parks Police was sneaking through the woods looking
for flashers. Apparently they'd had a rash of them in the park. He came across
more than he bargained for. The file says the constable initially thought it
was a bit of al fresco gross indecency between consenting males. Then he saw
the bindings around the boy's wrists.
'Korsakov sees the constable and makes a break for it, but the game is over and
he gets nicked before he's gone fifty feet. The arrest was made by Parks
Police. CID at Richmond inherited the job. According to the investigating
officer's notes on the case, he came to the conclusion it was a planned attack:
Korsakov had the laced beer with him. CID suspected he had previously targeted
the boy, specifically because he had learning difficulties.
'This is the bit you'll like. The investigating detective noted how Korsakov
had a heightened state of awareness of forensic evidence.'
'Well, our boy certainly has that,' Donnelly said.
'He wore a condom throughout the assault. He also wore a pair of leather gloves
that were brand new and he was wearing a waterproof jacket and trousers. He had
an empty bin liner in his pocket.'
Sean understood waterproofs were usually made of tightly woven nylon and could
be as effective at preventing forensic evidence transferring from the suspect
to the victim and vice versa as a forensic suit.
Sally went on: 'I've saved the best till last. When Korsakov was stripped and
examined back at the nick, they discovered he'd shaved all his pubic hair off.
He later claimed he'd had a dose of pubic crabs and had had to shave it all
off.'
'Shaved his pubes off,' Donnelly said. 'Now that's dedication.'
'But he wasn't convicted?' Sean asked.
'No,' Sally answered. 'He wasn't convicted of the rape. He was, however,
convicted of serious fraud. His home was searched as part of the investigation
and they found a shitload of papers relating to a pensions company he'd
established. The investigating detectives took a dislike to him ...'
'I can't think why,' Donnelly chipped in.
'... so they decided to stir up as much trouble as they could. Phoned around
people who'd signed up to his pension company. Made some inquiries as to where
he'd invested their money. Turned out the whole thing was a con. There was no
pension company - or at least, not a real one. The money was going towards
keeping Korsakov in the lifestyle he'd become accustomed to. Nice house, BMW
and a Range Rover, villa in Umbria ...
'He's a conman. A good one. An excellent forger of documents, too. He forged
clients' signatures and increased their payments without them even knowing.
He'd also forged himself numerous official documents. Passports. Driving
licences. All for different countries. There appears to be no end to his
talents.
'He'd stolen more than two million pounds. Mainly from the elderly. He was
finally convicted after a three-month trial and sentenced to four years'
custody. The money was never recovered. Released from Wandsworth prison on 24
August 1999.
'Since his release he's not been heard of. No arrests or convictions. Nothing.'
'Why wasn't he convicted of raping the boy?' Sean asked. 'Seemed
straightforward.'
'The boy withdrew the allegation. His parents thought it would be best for him
not to go through the courts. They were worried about the press finding out.
Making the boy's life a public freak show. So he walks on the rape, but the
investigating officers do their best to screw him anyway and he goes down on
the fraud charges.'
Sean spoke again. 'Offenders who commit this sort of crime don't strike once
then never again. No matter what the risks, he would have re-offended. He
couldn't have remained dormant for so long.'
'Agreed,' Sally said. 'Which means he's either dead, left the country, found
God and changed his ways or ...' She stopped short.
'Or?' Sean encouraged.
'Or he's become someone else. Used his forgery and fraud skills to create a new
identity for himself. A new life.'
'What's Korsakov look like?' Sean asked, a seed of an idea germinating in his
mind.
'I don't know,' Sally replied. 'There's no photograph on file. Only a
description.'
'Which is?' Sean asked.
Sally checked the file. 'Male, white. Back in ninety-six he was twenty-eight
years old, slim, athletic build, short light brown hair and no identifiable
marks, scars or tattoos.'
Sean and Donnelly exchanged glances. 'Sound like anyone we know?' Donnelly
asked.
Sean shook his head. 'I know what you're thinking, but they can't be the same
person. This guy's got a conviction, so his prints are on file. Hellier has no
prints on file, so he can't have been convicted of anything otherwise his
prints would be too, no matter what name he'd been convicted under.'
Donnelly knew Sean was right. 'Shame.'
'However,' Sean added, 'it won't hurt our case to look into it. Sally, you stay
with it. First thing in the morning, start finding out all you can about
Korsakov. See what Richmond have on him and track down the original
investigating officer.'
Sean turned to Donnelly. 'Have you still got that snapshot of Hellier I took?'
'Aye,' Donnelly answered and pulled the photograph from his jacket pocket,
handing it to Sean who in turn handed it to Sally.
'If you do track the investigating officer down, show him this,' Sean told her.
'See if he recognizes him.'
'I thought you said it couldn't possibly be Hellier?' Donnelly argued.
'No harm in double checking. Kill the possibility off once and for all.' Sean
turned to Sally. 'Once you've done that, concentrate on this Korsakov character
until you're happy you've got enough to eliminate him as a viable suspect.'
'And if I can't eliminate him?'
'You will,' Sean assured her. 'You will.'
Hellier only ventured out twice all day [?] once to the local shop for the
Sunday papers and then later for an afternoon stroll with his family around the
leafy suburban streets. Both his children held on to their mother's hands as
Hellier walked a few paces behind.
He couldn't have made it easier for the surveillance team to follow him. He
thought he had spotted some of them. Hard to tell, best to stay paranoid for
the time being. Always assume the worst. That way he would never be caught cold.
Now he sat in his cream and steel kitchen watching his wife clear up after the
evening meal. He pushed his half-eaten food away and sipped on a glass of
Pauillac de Latour.
'No appetite?' Elizabeth asked, smiling. Hellier didn't hear. 'Not hungry
tonight, darling?' She raised her voice slightly.
'Sorry, no,' Hellier answered. 'That was delicious, but just not feeling too
hungry.' He was with her only in body. His mind was outside with the
surveillance team in the streets around his house, circling him as a pack of
hyenas would an isolated lion.
'Worried about something?' Elizabeth asked.
'No. Why would I be?' Hellier didn't like being questioned by anybody.
'What about this identity fraud thing the police were looking into?'
'That was nothing,' Hellier insisted. 'Like I told you, it was all a mistake.
The police made a mistake, surprise, surprise.'
'Of course,' she backed down.
'You did tell them I was at home all night, didn't you?' Hellier asked without
apparent concern.
'I said exactly what you told me to.'
'Good.' But Hellier could tell she needed more. 'Look, I was at a very
sensitive meeting that night. The company wanted me to meet some potential
clients, very important clients, but they were a little worried about their
backgrounds. Beware Africans bearing large amounts of cash, as we say these
days. They wanted me to run the rule over them, that's all, see if their wealth
could be obviously identified as ill-gotten gains. If so, we wouldn't touch
them. All the same, we can't afford to have the police sniffing around our
affairs [?] it would be very bad for business. Our clients expect complete
confidentiality and privacy. I couldn't tell the police the truth. I'm sorry I
dragged you into it, darling, but I really had no choice.'
Elizabeth seemed happy with that. Even if she didn't entirely believe him, the
explanation was itself at least believable. 'You should have told me that
straight away, dear. I would have understood. But I'd watch out for that DI
Corrigan,' she warned him. 'He didn't come across as the usual PC Plod. There
was something unnerving about him. Some sort of animal cunning.'
Hellier felt rage suddenly swelling in his chest, his temples throbbing, his
body trembling involuntarily, but the expression on his face never changed from
calm and content. He couldn't stand to hear his adversary being complimented.
Even if his wife had meant it as an insult, it gave Corrigan more credibility
in his eyes, even suggested he should somehow fear him. His fists clenched
under the table as he imagined Elizabeth's smashed and bleeding face, his own
knuckles bleeding, shredded on her teeth.
He waited until the rage had swept over him and died, like a passing hurricane,
before rising from the table. He kissed her softly on the cheek. 'I'm afraid
you'll have to excuse me, darling,' he said. 'I need to do a little work. The
price we have to pay.'
Hellier headed for his study. He went through the ritual of recovering the key
to his safe and then opening it. He flicked through the small address book he'd
pulled from inside and found what he was looking for. He called the number.
'Hello?' the voice answered.
'You'd better call off your fucking dogs,' Hellier hissed.
'That's not possible. I haven't got that sort of influence.' The voice sounded
matter-of-fact. Hellier didn't like that.
'Listen to me, you fucking moron. As much as it amuses me having these
incompetents trying to follow me, they might just stumble across something we'd
both rather they didn't. So you'd better think of something, and soon.'
'I've already done more than I should,' the voice protested. 'I've stuck my
neck out. I can't do anything else. I won't.'
'Wrong again. I hope you're not going to make a habit of slipping up. I think
you know how costly your mistake could be.'
Hellier didn't wait for a reply. He hung up. He heard his wife call out. She
wanted to know if he wanted coffee.
11
I was late for work today. No matter. I went to my corner office, in an old
building in central London. I have a lovely view of the street below. I like to
watch people walking past. The office is all mine. I'm wealthy, but I hate this
job. I shouldn't have to work. Everybody else works and I'm far from being like
everybody else. I shouldn't have to work, but it is necessary for my illusion.
I sit in my leather chair and absorb a couple of tabloid papers while slurping
on a skinny caffe latte. Two sugars. The papers are full of the usual garbage.
Famine threatens millions in some African country. Flooding threatens millions
in some Asian country. The usual appeals for money and clothes. Some rock star
on the television, suddenly remorseful about their wealth and fame, screaming
about how guilty we should all feel.
Why can't everyone understand? These people have been selected by Nature to
die. Stop interfering. Nature knows best. You keep them alive now so in a
year's time they die of a disease instead, or you cure the disease and they die
of starvation. So you rid the world of starvation and they kill each other by
the tens of thousands in tribal wars. These do-gooders are ignorant fools
trying to buy a ticket into Utopia. Let us leave these millions to Nature [?]
let them fucking die.
I am Nature itself. I do what I was born to do and I don't feel guilty. I have
freed myself from the shackles of compassion and mercy. Some of you are simply
meant to die by my hand and so you will. Who am I to argue with Nature? Who are
you to? Nothing can stand in the way of Nature's design.
But I'm no sick case locked in a bed, sitting alone every night slashing my
chest with razor blades while masturbating to violent pornography. Not me. I'm
no self-destructive psychiatric case just waiting or hoping to be caught.
Neither am I seeking fame or notoriety. I don't even want to be infamous.
You'll not see me sending the police clues, playing a game, phoning them up
with tasty morsels of information. None of that interests me. I'll give them
nothing. I must remain free to continue my work. That is all that's important
now.
And even if they do catch up with me, they'll never prove a thing.
My third visit was the most satisfying experience of my life. A development. A
further sign of my growing strength and power.
In a way it is merciful. A new-born killer can make a terrible mess of things.
Prolong the victim's agony. An efficient killer is exactly that. Efficient. I
grow more efficient with each kill. That's not to say I don't like to have a
little fun, every now and then.
Besides, I have to make a mess sometimes, to keep the police guessing. Can't
stick to the same method of dispatching the chosen few. That would make it all
too easy. They're already sniffing around very close to home, not that that
concerns me.
I rented another car. A big fat Vauxhall, with a big fat boot to match. The car
rental companies around London were doing quite nicely out of me lately. Still,
I was doing quite nicely out of them. Again I parked the car in a car park
overnight, this time in the shopping centre at Brent Cross in North London. I
bought a new raincoat from the same shopping centre, along with new
plastic-soled shoes. I bought a nylon T-shirt and a new pair of black Nike
training bottoms, all of which I stored in the hired car until I needed them.
I was all set. I returned to the car park early the following evening. The
shops were still open. I took the clothes from the boot of the car and changed
into them in a public toilet. I returned to the car and quickly covered the
real number plates with false ones. I had been careful to park in a CCTV blind
spot.
All went smoothly and I drove south towards King's Cross railway station, a
modern monstrosity of a building. I drove against the flow of traffic and
arrived there around 8 p.m. It wasn't quite dark yet, so I parked the car in a
side street. It was free to park at this time of night. That was important. I
couldn't risk a parking ticket or the unwanted attention of a bored policeman.
I left the car and walked towards the West End, along Euston Road. From my
research I knew there was a Burger King close to St Pancras station. Despite
the excited tightness in my belly I felt a little hungry, so decided to grab a
bite to eat. It was as good a way as any to kill an hour and let the night grow
dark. Wait until winter comes, I thought. Sixteen hours of darkness a day. What
fun we'll have then.
I ate my Whopper with cheese, chewed a few fries and slurped a diet 7UP. I
amused myself watching the people milling around me, unaware they were dancing
so close to death. Young foreign students mainly, being served by life's losers.
My attention became focused on three young Spanish girls. They picked at their
food and giggled. They were attracting the attention of a group of dark-skinned
youths. I didn't think the youths were Spanish [?] probably Italian or, worse,
Albanian. Probably more interested in stealing the girls' handbags than their
virginity.
I would have liked to tie the giggling girls up. Spend plenty of time with
them. Watch their tears of pain and fear flow, hear their stifled squeals of
agony and humiliation as I had my fun with them one by one. Then I'd make them
watch and see my power as I slit their throats. A twisted, bloody tribute to
the beauty of violent death.
I had to calm myself. My imagination was over-exciting me and the tightness in
my belly was becoming painful. I had my subject for the night. It had been
arranged. Carefully planned. I had to guard against acting on impulse. The
Spanish girls would live. Someone else would not.
When the time came, I left the restaurant. On the way out I walked close to the
Spanish girls. I breathed them in deeply. They smelled sweet. Like bubble gum.
One of them glanced at me and smiled. I smiled back. Her friends noticed and
all three returned to a giggling scrum. Some other time, perhaps.
I'd been agitated by the girls. My heart beat faster than normal. I was on the
point of being desperate. I'd prayed my chosen subject would be where they
should be. I walked faster than I should have. Had anyone noticed me? Thought
me a little out of place? On reflection, I didn't think so.
I reached my chosen vantage point, at the far west tip of King's Cross station.
I was so excited I almost wandered into the range of some CCTV cameras attached
to the side of the station wall. I managed to stop myself. I looked across the
five lanes of Euston Road traffic and focused on the small, brightly lit cafe.
I could see straight inside. It was typical of the cafes around the station. A
real shit hole. The owner sold poisonous food and child prostitutes.
The game machines by the front door were a sign. A beacon to the young
homeless. Runaways from the North and Midlands often made it no further from
the railway station than this cafe. From here, they would be farmed out to
various pimps across London. That would then be their life. Prostitution,
crime, drugs and early death.
Other hunters visited this place. It was like an African watering hole. Most
hunting illicit under-age sex. Some, very occasionally, hunting to kill, but
none quite like me.
She was right where she should be. Pumping money into a fruit machine. A lost
cause chasing a lost cause. She must have been between fourteen and sixteen,
about five foot three, long dirty blonde hair, white skin, beautiful like
marble. Slim. Half my size.
I'd been watching the place off and on for a couple of weeks. Nothing took my
fancy, but I persevered. After a few days she appeared, rucksack in hand. From
the first moment I saw her, she was mine.
I hadn't been any closer to her yet than this. I hadn't heard her speak, so I
didn't know where she was from. I didn't know the colour of her eyes yet
either. I hoped they were brown. Brown eyes set against that marble skin would
be stunning. I needed to see her blood on that skin. I started getting an
erection. I took some deep breaths and calmed myself down.
During the times I'd watched her, she hadn't been taken away by anyone. I
didn't think she'd succumbed to the inevitable life of prostitution yet. Good.
The more innocent they are, the greater my pleasure is. Is there anything
sweeter than violated innocence?
I kept watch. Waiting for her to make a deadly mistake. No one noticed me.
There were thousands of people around the station. For once the weather
forecast had been accurate and it was drizzling, hence my raincoat seemed
perfectly normal, even at this time of year.
She did it several times a night. Walked out of the cafe and around into a side
street, close to where I'd parked the car. At first I wondered what she was
doing. Urinating? Giving clients fumbling oral sex? Then I saw her. She was
going for a cigarette. She didn't want to share it with the other runaway
fuckers. And why should she? They say smoking is bad for your health. If only
she knew.
I patiently watched her. Still excited, but less agitated now. I had more
control over myself. I could wait. It was only a matter of time.
My patience was rewarded. I saw her speaking to the other youths huddled around
the machine. She was making her excuse to leave. The others didn't seem
interested. She stepped out of the cafe, looking up and down the street. She
knew she was mere prey. She was nervous about moving away from the safety of
the herd. She disappeared into the side street. I crossed the road by the
pelican crossing. The light rain made the yellow, red and green lights of the
street dance on the shiny road and the vehicles that passed.
The girl was out of view now, but I could smell her. Feel her. I moved in
closer. Drawn to her. I had the police identification in my coat pocket. My
hand rested on it. Ready. In the other pocket I had a small carving knife in
case she tried to run or squeal. I'd bought the knife months ago and hid it in
my study at home. It was a common brand. Very good for slicing tomatoes, or so
the sales assistant had told me.
I saw her clearly enough. Standing in the doorway of a derelict shop, smoking
her cigarette. She watched me walking in her direction. I sensed her caution,
but no real fear yet. Nothing that would make her take flight. I was careful
not to look at her as I approached. I used my peripheral vision to watch her. I
got to about five metres away from her. If she'd run then, she might have
lived. Any longer and she couldn't have got away. I am strong. I am fast. Much
stronger and faster than I look. I exercise a lot. Secretly.
I drew level and turned to face her. She was trapped by railings on either side
of the doorway. With the survival instincts of a wild animal, she spoke
immediately: 'Come near me and I'll fucking scream. I'll scream rape and I'll
tell the coppers you touched us up.' She had a Newcastle accent.
I smiled at her. I thought about pulling out the knife and slaughtering her
right there. There was no one around. I stuck to the plan instead. I pulled out
the police badge and showed it to her. Casually.
'Oh fuck,' she whispered.
'Name and age?' I asked. She huffed, like a spoilt teenager being asked to make
her bed by weak-willed parents. 'Name and age? I haven't got all night to waste
fucking around with you,' I lied.
'Heather Freeman.' She finally looked me in the eyes. Hers were blue. Never
mind. 'And I'm seventeen.'
I laughed. 'I don't think so, Heather. Your parents reported you missing over a
week ago. You're under-age and that means you're coming with me,' I lied again.
'Where to?' she asked. She sounded slightly panicked, but not scared. She
certainly wasn't scared of me.
'The police station. And then we'll call your parents. See if they can come and
pick you up.'
She argued a little more and I told her she had no choice for now but to come
with me. I needed to get her moving while the road was still quiet. I took hold
of her upper arm and gripped firmly. She winced.
'You're hurting me arm,' she complained in her north-eastern accent.
'Can't have you running off again, can we?' I explained. She huffed, her skin
was as soft as warm water under my fingers. She would bruise easily. I relaxed
my grip somewhat. I didn't want to leave an impression of my hand in her soft
skin. 'Come on. My car's around the corner.'
'Haven't you got anything better to do than hassle me?' she asked, her accent
increasingly annoying.
'Saving you from yourself, young lady,' I answered. 'These streets are no place
for someone like you. There's a lot of bad people out there.'
She huffed again.
We reached my rented car without incident. No one had seen us. I'd checked the
route several times before. It wasn't overlooked by any residential buildings.
No matter how busy King's Cross and the Euston Road were, the side streets were
more often than not deserted of life. Just the occasional vermin looking for a
whore.
I stood her by the boot of the car, so she was slightly side-on to me. I opened
the boot, which was already lined with plastic sheets. I'd bought them a few
weeks ago from Homebase. You use them for decorating.
Fear flashed into her body. It electrified her every muscle, every nerve. Her
eyes widened and her pupils dilated. 'What's this for?' she was almost pleading.
I smashed my right fist into her jaw, careful to avoid her mouth. I didn't want
to leave my skin on her teeth. She spun around on the spot and began to fall. I
caught her as she did. She was limp. Moaning quietly.
With almost no effort I threw her into the boot of the big saloon. I picked up
the roll of gaffer tape, another purchase from Homebase, and neatly bound her
wrists behind her back. I also bound her ankles, knees, and gagged her pretty
mouth. I looked around calmly. Still no one in sight. I stroked the pale skin
around her neck. God, I wanted to slice it open right there. I slammed the boot
shut before I lost control. All in good time, I told myself. All in good time.
I drove east along the Pentonville Road. Through wealthy Islington,
immigrant-swamped Shoreditch, decaying Mile End and immediately forgettable
Plaistow. Finally I reached my chosen destination. A large piece of wasteland
in South Hornchurch, not far from the Dagenham Ford factory. A suitably grim
and dark place for little Heather Freeman to meet her end.
I drove along the clean tarmac road to a small brick building in the middle of
the waste ground and parked close. I put on a pair of rubber gloves and made
sure my coat was fully buttoned. When I opened the boot, she was lying on her
side. Tears ran down her face and across the tape over her mouth. Her wet eyes
shone like the purest diamonds. I wondered if she had ever looked more
beautiful. She was too terrified to manage much more than a whimper.
I pushed her face into the plastic sheets and turned her on to her stomach. Her
crying became more desperate. I grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and by
the tape around her knees and lifted her easily out of the boot. She was even
slighter than I imagined. I carried her like an old suitcase into the building
and threw her on the hard, cold ground. If she hadn't been gagged, she would
have called out in pain.
I grabbed her hair and pulled her face close. Those beautiful eyes stared into
mine. 'I'm going to cut you free now. Do as I say and you'll live. Fuck up or
scream and you die. You die slowly. Understand?' She closed her eyes and nodded
frantically.
I pulled the knife out and made sure she saw it. She was squealing again behind
the tape. She pulled away from me. I yanked her back painfully. She got the
message.
First I cut the tape around her ankles. Then I pulled it away from her mouth.
She gasped for air. I sensed she was about to speak. I pulled her face closer.
'Speak [?] you die.'
I cut the tape from around her wrists and she rubbed at her skin. I let go of
her hair and stepped back five paces. I wanted to see all of her. It was how I
had foreseen it. How I had imagined it would be.
'Take your top off.'
Her face was twisted in fear and shame. She began to unbutton her dirty shirt.
She moved slowly and that suited me fine. When she had finished unbuttoning it,
I ordered her again to take it off. Slowly she pulled it off her shoulders and
let it fall to the floor. She wasn't wearing a bra. Her young breasts didn't
need one. They were small and unattractive. The nipples pink and pointed.
'Take your trousers off.'
Again I could tell she was about to speak. I put my finger to my lips. 'Shhh.'
She understood and struggled out of her training shoes before removing her
trousers. They lay at her feet.
'The rest,' I demanded quietly.
Her sobbing intensified. She pulled her knickers off with one hand. The other
covered her inadequate breasts. She turned sideways to me. The headlights from
my car illuminated the inside of the building perfectly. She was perfect. Her
pubic hair was still soft and feather-like. I would ensure she never became
anything less than perfect.
I moved close to her again. 'Get on your knees and take me in your mouth.'
She mouthed a please. I pointed towards my groin with the knife. Her face was
becoming even more twisted with fear and disgust.
I put my hands on her shoulders and pushed her on to her knees. She began to
untie the front of my tracksuit bottoms. As she did so, I grabbed her hair and
bent her head back as far as it would go. Her slender neck stretched out below
me. In one motion I stepped away and swept the blade across her throat. I
severed her jugular and cut through her trachea.
I kept moving backwards as she held her throat in both hands. The blood seeped
quickly through her fingers and dropped on to her naked chest. It ran across
her small breasts and on to her stomach. She fell sideways to the floor before
the blood reached her pubic area. That was a shame. I considered picking her up
so it could reach there, but decided not to.
I watched the last few seconds of her worthless life. At least now she would be
remembered for something. Her death had more meaning than her life could ever
have. She had become the purest work of art. I resisted the temptation to
masturbate over her warm body.
She died still clutching her throat. Thin lines of the reddest blood streaked
her face. Her eyes stared lifelessly. Diamonds. Perfection.
I stood just watching her for over two hours. I was lost. Totally captivated.
The killing had been so much more satisfying than the previous ones. The knife.
The intimacy. To watch the life ebb away. The colours. The textures.
Yes, I had taken more risks than before, but it was worth it. It had been
necessary and the risks were manageable. By leaving her naked, the police would
assume it was a sexual attack. It was not. I won't pretend I didn't enjoy
seeing her naked. I did, but it wasn't her sex I was interested in. That was
irrelevant.
I left the girl where she was. Let the police have the body. I wanted them to
find it. I wanted them think they were looking for a manic killer. A
spontaneous killer. A reckless killer. Not one like me.
I returned to the car and changed clothes. The used ones I tied in a plastic
bag. I would take them to the civic dump back at Brent Cross tomorrow, along
with some old rubbish my wife had been nagging me to get rid of. After that I'd
take the rented car back, having removed the false plates, of course. No doubt
they would give the car a good clean for me, too.
I drove back towards North London. Totally at ease by then. I was beginning to
realize my potential. My power and control were unrivalled. It had been the
most beautiful experience of my life - to take a life in this way - not in
revenge or a fit of temper - not when my blood was boiling with hatred and
anger after being insulted and wronged, but a glorious execution of my right to
do as I please and take whoever I want to take - my power. No hot blood coursed
through my veins. My blood ran cold and she - she was a cold killing.
There was no going back now.
12
Monday morning
Sean hauled himself from his uncomfortable chair, stretching and yawning as he
looked out of his office window at the flat roofs of the surrounding buildings,
their surfaces littered with the detritus of man and nature. He hadn't slept
well the previous night, too many unanswered questions swimming around his
mind. His body ached miserably. A hopping bird caught his eye, drawing his
attention to the nearest of the rooftops, its blue-black feathers shining in
the sunlight, making its white patches barely visible. The magpie took
over-sized steps towards what had brought it to this desolate place, its head
constantly jerking into new positions as it checked for danger and opportunity.
Sean saw what it was moving towards - the half-concealed body of another bird
[?] and assumed it had come to feast on a dead pigeon, but as it grew closer he
realized it held something in its beak, something shiny, like a polished stone.
He watched fascinated as the bird placed the object next to the body, then
squawked loudly and sorrowfully before flying away. He squinted against the sun
and focused as hard as he could on the small corpse below, the black and white
feathers confirming what he'd already suspected. As he continued to watch the
sad little drama more magpies came to see their fallen kinsman, each bringing
gifts of twigs and shiny objects, food and things precious to their kind,
always chasing away any pigeons that dared to approach the lifeless body,
pecking violently at their eyes, prepared to kill to protect their dead. No
matter how hard he tried, he couldn't look away, until Donnelly burst into his
office holding a set of car keys, shattering his temporary escape. 'Going
somewhere?' Sean asked.
'Drop your linen and stop your grinning. Fingerprints finally got back to us.
They've matched a single print from the victim's flat to Hellier. He was in the
flat. There's no mistake.'
'A single print?' Sean asked, confused. 'Is it a partial?'
'No,' Donnelly reassured him. 'It's a full match.'
'Just one print.' Sean could tell he was alone in his scepticism. 'Where did
they find it?'
'On the underside of the door handle for the bathroom. The outside handle,'
Donnelly informed him. 'You don't look overly excited,' he added.
Sean chased the doubts from his mind and tried to concentrate on the fact that
finally he had usable, tangible evidence. His aches and pains faded as his
excitement grew. 'No wonder he didn't want to give his fingerprints. Get hold
of the surveillance team and find out where Hellier is now, and get Sally to
sort out a couple of search teams. Once he's nicked I want his office and home
searched. No shit once-over. Full searches. With forensics too. You take one
team and do his house. I'll do his office with the other.'
Donnelly spun on his heels and left Sean's office.
They always make a mistake, Sean thought. They always make a mistake.
The three unmarked police cars drove fast towards Knightsbridge. The
surveillance had confirmed Hellier was at his office. The blue lights attached
to the roofs of the cars whirled while the sirens screamed at the mid-morning
traffic to clear the way.
Sean sat in the trailing car. He felt exuberant. He remembered this was why he
had joined the force. Driving fast through traffic. Lights flashing, sirens
wailing. Envious looks from other drivers. Children pointing. It just didn't
happen enough.
They would arrest Hellier at his office and then search the entire place. Inch
by inch. It didn't matter to Sean who knew Hellier had been arrested. He wasn't
about to be subtle.
Maybe Hellier would confess when faced with the fingerprint evidence. If not,
how was he going to talk his way out of it? With luck, Hellier would be charged
with murder before dark.
Other officers, led by Donnelly, were on their way to Hellier's house in
Islington. They would wait until Sean sent word that Hellier had been arrested.
As soon as he was, they would have the legal power to search his home for
evidence relating to the murder of Daniel Graydon. Sean thought they had a
better chance of finding something incriminating in Hellier's office. Surely he
wouldn't risk leaving anything for his wife and kids to stumble across at home.
The three cars braked hard outside Hellier's Knightsbridge office. They didn't
bother to look for parking spaces, just left them to block the road. A driver
remained with each. The car doors seemed to open simultaneously. Nine police
officers including Sean and Sally stepped out on to the tarmac. The heat had
made it sticky.
They moved menacingly across the pavement to the front door of the building
housing Hellier's office. Sally pressed the buzzer for the ground floor. No
need to forewarn Hellier.
The intercom spoke. 'Good morning. Albert Bray and Partners. Do you have an
appointment with one of our consultants?'
'I'm a police officer and I need immediate access to this building.' There was
a silence. Sally continued: 'This doesn't concern your company or any of your
employees.'
The door buzzed and Sally pushed it open. The detectives moved quickly and
quietly into the entrance hallway. Two remained close to the front door. The
other seven walked fast up the stairs.
They reached Butler and Mason and another locked door. Sean pounded on it. Time
to ruffle some well-groomed feathers. Within a few seconds the door was opened
by the perfect-looking secretary. He swerved past into the office itself. Her
mouth dropped open. Sean thought she was about to protest.
'Is Mr Hellier in his office?' She was struck dumb. 'I said, is Mr Hellier in
his office?' Nothing. 'I'll assume he is. Jim. Stan.' Two detectives looked at
him. 'You boys stay here and cover the front door. The rest with me and Sally.'
They strode along the corridor towards Hellier's office. Finally the secretary
found her voice. She chased after them. 'You can't go in there. Mr Hellier is
in a very important meeting.'
'Wrong,' was all Sean said.
'You need a search warrant,' she argued.
'Wrong again,' Sean told her without looking.
He threw open Hellier's door and walked straight in. The other detectives
waited outside. Hellier sat at his desk, and Sebastian Gibran, who'd disturbed
their last meeting, sat next to him, watching them as closely as Sean watched
Hellier. Two other men Sean didn't recognize sat opposite; they seemed
terrified. Hellier never flinched. Sean kept moving. He was almost at Hellier's
side. He showed Hellier his warrant card.
'James Hellier, I'm Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan. This is Detective
Sergeant Jones and Detective Constable Zukov. I'm arresting you for the murder
of Daniel Graydon.
'You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so. However, it may harm
your defence if you fail to mention something when questioned that you later
rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence against you.
'Do you understand the caution, Mr Hellier?'
By the book, Sean thought. Best way with a slippery bastard like Hellier,
especially with three witnesses sitting there with stunned expressions on their
faces.
Hellier stared hard at him. Sean saw a flash of pure hatred. Hellier smiled and
addressed the three men sitting opposite. 'If you'll please excuse me,
gentlemen. It appears the police need me to help them with their inquiries.' He
stood slowly, as if bored, and dramatically held out his wrists. 'Aren't you
going to handcuff me, Inspector?'
'I would,' Sean said, 'but you'd probably enjoy it.' He took hold of Hellier's
upper arm. Hellier felt strong. Solid. Sean was a little surprised. 'Let's go.'
Gibran tried to intervene, stepping in front of them. 'Is this necessary?' he
asked, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. Forever Butler and Mason's chief
negotiator and protector. 'Surely this heavy handedness is unwarranted?'
'Sorry, I don't remember your name,' Sean said, leaning uncomfortably close to
the man.
'Really?' Gibran said. 'That's odd. You don't strike me as the sort of man who
forgets very much about anything.'
'Keep your nose out of our business, Mr Gibran,' Sean warned. 'And let us
decide what is and isn't necessary.'
Gibran slowly stepped aside, holding out an upturned palm, indicating they
could pass, as if they somehow needed his permission.
Sean and Zukov marched Hellier out of the office along the corridor. When
Hellier was certain no one else could hear or see him, his expression changed
to a snarl, showing Sean a glimpse of the monster he knew lived beneath the
mask. 'Just get me my fucking solicitor.' He spat the words into Sean's face.
Donnelly and the other officers were already inside Hellier's house. Donnelly
was rifling through the drawers in the lounge, well-practised eyes scanning
over papers, letters, everything. DC Fiona Cahill was at his side, handing him
more papers she had found elsewhere in the room.
Elizabeth Hellier had recovered from mild shock and was now running around
talking incessantly. Complaining and threatening. Her threats were idle. They
could take the house apart and there would be little she could do about it.
Donnelly could bear her twittering no longer. 'Mrs Hellier, this is gonna
happen with or without your objections. The quicker and easier this is, the
sooner we'll be out of here. Why don't you take a seat in the kitchen? Have a
cup of tea and stay out of the way.'
He steered Mrs Hellier into the kitchen, guiding her on to a stool. Another
detective peered around the kitchen door.
'Dave,' he said, 'we've got a locked door.'
'My husband's study,' Mrs Hellier said. 'He always keeps it locked during the
day. I don't know where the key is. I think he takes it to work.'
'Fine,' Donnelly said. He turned to the detective. 'Break it open.'
'What?' Mrs Hellier almost squealed. 'Please, contact my husband. He'll open it
for you, I'm sure.'
'I think he's probably got other things on his mind right now, Mrs Hellier.' As
Donnelly spoke, he could hear the unmistakable sound of splintering wood.
Sean left the others to complete the search of Hellier's office. It would take
hours. He'd travelled back to Peckham police station with Hellier, who had
stared out of the window all the way. Hellier hadn't responded to any
approaches Sean had tried and he'd tried plenty. Disgust. Aggression. Threats.
Compassion. Understanding. It had been Sean's only chance to go one-on-one with
Hellier before the rules took over. Nothing had moved him. Yet.
Even when he was booked into the custody area, Hellier never spoke except to
give his name and the details of the solicitor he demanded to speak with
immediately. The custody officer assured him the solicitor would be called. He
was about to have Hellier taken to his cell when Sean spoke. 'One other thing
...'
'Yes?' the sergeant asked.
'We want the clothes he's wearing. All of them.'
'Okay. Take him to his cell - number four's free. Forensic suits are in the
cupboard at the end of the cell passage.'
Sean knew where the white paper suits were. Replacement clothing for suspects
whose own clothes had been seized. They marked suspects who'd been arrested for
serious crimes. Rapists. Murderers. Armed robbers. Police and other prisoners
alike always paid more attention to men in white paper suits.
'Is there anyone I can call to have some replacement clothes brought for you,
Mr Hellier?' the sergeant asked. Hellier didn't reply. The sergeant shrugged
his shoulders. 'He's all yours, guv'nor.'
Sean nodded his appreciation and led Hellier to his cell.
DC Alan Jesson followed Sean and Hellier into the miserably dreary cell. He
carried the brown paper bags all clothing exhibits were sealed in. Plastic bags
caused too much moisture. Moulds could grow quickly and destroy vital evidence.
Paper let the clothes breathe. Kept evidence intact.
'Strip. Take everything off and then put this on.' Sean threw the white paper
suit on the stone bench.
Hellier smiled and began to undress. The detective constable carefully folded
Hellier's Boss suit, Thomas Pink shirt and the rest of his clothing, then slid
them into the brown paper bags. The detective wasn't concerned about creasing
the clothes; he was taking care not to lose any forensic evidence that might be
entwined in the fibres of the clothing.
Sean glanced at Hellier's virtually naked body. He had the physique of an
Olympic gymnast, only slimmer, denser and more defined. Physically he would be
more than a match for Sean, and that rarely happened.
Hellier looked at him. He spoke silently in his mind. Enjoy your moment,
bastard, because you will pay for this. I swear I will destroy you, Detective
Inspector Corrigan. I will end you.
Donnelly and his team had been searching Hellier's home for over three hours.
They had bagged and tagged most of Hellier's clothing and shoes, but had found
nothing startling.
Donnelly was searching through Hellier's desk drawers. They'd had to break them
all open, one by one. Elizabeth Hellier had sworn she didn't have keys.
All their search had turned up was further evidence that Hellier was as wealthy
as he looked. He had a number of bank accounts: Barclays, HSBC, Bank of
America, ASB Bank in New Zealand. Each containing in excess of a hundred
thousand pounds or the foreign equivalent. Donnelly let out soft whistles as he
added up the sums, but other than that he found nothing.
He needed to stand and stretch. As he pushed the chair back from the desk he
felt a stinging pain in his thigh. He looked down and saw a rip in his trouser
leg.
'Oh, you bastard,' he declared. 'What the bloody hell was that?' He put his
hand under the desk and felt around. He touched something. It was small and
cold. Something metal.
He pushed the chair away and ducked under the table. He saw them immediately.
Not one, but two shiny keys taped underneath the desk. He didn't touch them.
'Peter - get the photographer in here. I need a picture taken.'
Only when the keys had been photographed and fingerprinted did Donnelly remove
them from under the desk. The tape used to hold them in place had been
carefully removed and sealed in a plastic evidence bag. Who knew how many
microscopic pieces of evidence clung to its sticky back?
He held the keys up and asked the room a question. 'Now. What do we use keys
for?' Slowly he looked down at the drawers they'd broken open. The locks
remained intact. He winced as he put one of the keys into the drawer lock. It
didn't fit. He tried the other. It fitted. He grimaced before turning the key.
The lock clicked open. 'Ooops,' he said. 'I think we might be getting a bill
for some broken antique furniture.'
He tried the other drawers. The key fitted them all. He dropped it into an
evidence bag and sealed it straight away. He tossed the other key around in the
palm of his hand and called out across the office. 'Anyone finds a locked
anything, let me know.'
A detective searching the walnut cabinets attracted Donnelly's attention. 'Hold
on, there could be something under here.'
Donnelly moved closer and watched over his shoulder. He pulled back the carpet
at the base of the cabinet. They stared at the floor safe. They looked at each
other, then at the key in Donnelly's hand.
He pushed the key into the lock. He could feel it was precision-made. It slid
into place as if it had been oiled. The heavy door opened upwards.
The first things he saw were bundle of cash, neatly rolled and held in place
with rubber bands. He touched nothing. He could see they were mainly US
dollars. Hundred-dollar bills. Some sterling too [?] fifty-pound notes [?] and
Singapore dollars, again in fifties. How much in total, he could only guess. He
saw the unmistakable red cover of a British passport. He flicked it open [?] it
was in Hellier's name. This man could leave the country in a hurry if he had to.
There was something else, lying under the passport. A small black book. An
address book? Donnelly was still on his knees. He looked up at the detective
who'd discovered the floor safe.
'You'd better get that photographer back in here. And the fingerprint lady,
too. I don't know what all this is about, but it's got to mean something.'
Sally's search team had arrived back at about 2 p.m. She sat with Sean in his
office briefing him on what they had found and seized, the main thing being
Hellier's computer that would be sent to the electronics lab where the boffins
would interrogate the system's innards. Maybe they could find something, but it
would take time.
Sean's phone rang. 'Hello, this is DI Corrigan.'
'Front office here, sir. There's a Mr Templeman wants to see you.'
'Tell him I'll be down in a minute.' Sean hung up. 'Hellier's brief's here,' he
informed Sally as he set off for the front office. He walked quickly along the
busy corridors and skipped down the stairs, nodding to the stressed-looking
civilian station officer before waving Templeman past the waiting queue of
customers. Templeman wasted no time with pleasantries. 'I demand immediate
access to my client.'
'Of course,' Sean agreed, and guided him through a side door into the station.
'I'll take you to the custody suite. Follow me.'
'And when do you plan on interviewing my client? Soon, I hope.'
'When the Section Eighteen searches are complete and I've had time to assess
the evidence.'
'How long, Inspector?'
'Two or three hours.'
'That's totally unacceptable,' Templeman argued. 'Clearly you're in no position
to interview my client, therefore I suggest you release him on bail until such
time as you are ready. Later this week, perhaps.'
'I'm investigating a murder,' Sean reminded him, 'not some Mickey Mouse fraud.
Hellier stays in custody until I'm ready.'
Sean typed in the code on the security pad attached to the outside of the
custody suite. When the pad gave out a high-pitched beep, he pushed the door
open, immediately looking for a gaoler to take Templeman off his hands.
'Murder or fraud, Inspector, everyone is entitled to a fair and vigorous
defence,' Templeman continued. 'And that's what I'll ensure my client gets.'
'Everyone except the dead,' Sean replied coldly. 'Everyone except Daniel
Graydon.' He grabbed a passing gaoler before Templeman could reply. 'This is
Hellier's brief,' he said. 'He would like to see his client as soon as
possible.'
'No problem,' the gaoler responded. 'If you follow me, sir, I'll sort that out
for you.'
Sean was already walking away, Templeman calling after him: 'I need to see any
relevant statements you have. I'm entitled to primary disclosure, Inspector.
I'm entitled to know what evidence you have against my client.'
'And you will,' Sean answered, already looking forward to the moment when he
would reveal Hellier's fingerprint had been found in Daniel Graydon's flat, but
undecided who he was most looking forward to seeing squirm: Hellier or
Templeman.
Sean bounced up the stairs and back along the corridors to the incident room,
tired legs suddenly alive again. He reached the incident room in time to hear
the volume within rising. It could mean only one thing: Donnelly's search team
were back. Sean headed for his office, passing Donnelly en route. 'My office,
when you've got a minute, Dave.'
Donnelly dumped several evidence bags on his own desk and headed straight for
Sean's office.
'What have you got?' Sean said.
'We've seized every bit of clothing he owns and his shoes. We'll get that lot
up to the lab tomorrow.'
'I need something now. Something for the interview. I want to charge Hellier
tonight. Tomorrow at the latest.'
'Sorry, boss. No smoking gun in the house. But it's all wrong there [?] he
keeps his office locked all day when he's not in there, even when he's at home.
His wife says she doesn't know where he keeps the keys. She also says she knew
nothing about the floor safe.'
'Floor safe?' Sean asked.
'The jewel in the crown. Guy's got a floor safe in his study.'
'Plenty of rich people have got floor safes. Doesn't mean much.'
'True, but how many keep rolls of US dollars in them, with their passports?
There was an address book too.'
'So he's prepared to leave in a hurry. Who knows why? If it was a crime not to
trust banks, we'd all be in jail.'
'For someone who doesn't trust banks, he's sure got plenty of money in them.
Close to half a million, from what I could tell. God knows how much the final
total will be.'
'What about the address book?' Sean asked. Often it was the smaller, less
dramatic items that held the vital clues. A scrap of paper with a number
written on it amongst pristine bank statements. An old person's collectable in
a young man's flat. If it seemed out of place, no matter how slight, it could
be the biggest lead of all.
'I just had a cursory glance. Nothing more than initials and numbers. If
they're phone numbers, then they're definitely not local. Probably overseas.
It's not arranged alphabetically. I've already checked for the victim's
initials, DG. Not in there.'
'Hellier could be using codes,' Sean said. 'Get every number in there up to
SO11 and have them run subscribers' checks on the lot anyway. Tell them we need
names and addresses by tomorrow lunchtime at the latest.'
'I'll ask, boss, but that'll be tight.'
'Do it anyway. In the absence of anything else, I'll press on and interview
Hellier. Let's see what he's got to say about his fingerprint being in the
victim's flat.'
Donnelly sat in on the interview, but it would be Sean who'd ask most of the
questions. The interview room was barren. A wooden table, four uncomfortable
chairs. The walls were dirty beige. No pictures. The room smelled of rubber
flooring and stale cigarettes. A double-deck tape recorder lay on the table.
Microphones were pinned to the wall.
Sean, Hellier and Templeman sat quietly, watching Donnelly break the cellophane
tape around two new audio cassettes. He put both into the recorder and slapped
the machine shut.
Sean broke the silence. 'When we press "start", you'll hear a buzzing sound.
That'll last about five seconds. When that noise stops, we're recording. Do you
understand?'
Templeman spoke for Hellier. 'We understand, Inspector.'
Sean could feel a 'No Comment' interview coming his way. He nodded to Donnelly,
who pressed the 'record' button. The two tape reels began to turn together, the
buzzing noise louder than anyone had expected. Even Sean felt his heart skip a
beat. After a few seconds the noise stopped. There was a second of silence
before he found his voice.
'This interview is being recorded. I'm Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan. The
other officer present is ...' He let Donnelly answer for himself.
'DS Dave Donnelly.'
Sean continued: 'I am interviewing - could you please state your name for the
tape?' Sean spoke to Hellier. Hellier looked at Templeman, who nodded that he
should speak. Hellier leaned forward a little.
'James Hellier.' He leaned away.
'And the other person present is?'
Templeman knew his cue. 'Jonathon Templeman. Solicitor. And I'd like to say at
this point that I am here to represent James Hellier. I will advise him
regarding the law and his rights. I am also here to ensure the interview is
conducted fairly and to challenge any questions or behaviour by the police that
I deem to be inappropriate, unfair, irrelevant or hypothetical.
'I would also like to say that against my advice ...' Sean saw Templeman cast a
quick glance at Hellier, 'Mr Hellier has decided he would like to answer any
questions you ask.'
Sean wondered if they'd staged this little performance. Templeman's idea,
probably. Cast Hellier in the role of the victim of circumstance. The innocent
man out to prove it. Whatever it was, Sean hadn't seen it coming. He continued
with the pre-interview procedure.
'You have the right to consult with a legal representative or solicitor. You
can consult on the phone or have one attend the police station and this right
is free. As we know, you have your solicitor, Mr Templeman, present here
anyway. Have you had sufficient time to consult with your legal representative
in private?'
Templeman continued to speak for Hellier. 'Yes, we have.'
'I must remind you that you're still under caution. That means you do not have
to say anything unless you wish to do so. However, it may harm your defence if
you fail to mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court.
Anything you do say may be used in evidence. Do you understand?'
'He understands,' Templeman said.
Sean decided to break this routine. 'I would like Mr Hellier to answer for
himself. I need to hear that he understands from his own mouth.'
Templeman was on the verge of protesting, but Hellier spoke. There was no
feeling in his voice. 'I understand, Inspector. The time has come for
explanations.'
Sean's stomach tensed. Was Hellier about to spill? Had the burden of guilt
caught up with him? Few had the strength to carry their darkest secrets all the
way to the grave.
Hellier and Sean locked stares. Sean spoke. 'Mr Hellier. James. Did you kill
Daniel Graydon?'
Sally entered the Intelligence Office at Richmond police station where she was
met by a uniformed constable. 'Are you the DS from the SCG?' he asked
unceremoniously.
'Yes. I'm DS--' Sally was interrupted. The constable wasn't interested.
'So what is it you're after?'
'Information from your records,' Sally told him. 'Back in 1996 a man called
Stefan Korsakov was charged here with a serious sexual assault and fraud.'
'An unusual mix,' offered the constable.
'Yeah,' Sally answered. 'Later the assault charges were dropped, but he went
down for the fraud. You should have a charging photograph of him. I need to see
it.'
'Back in ninety-six? You'll be lucky if we still have a card on him. Unless he
re-offended within the last five years, his old card wouldn't have been
transferred on to the new Intelligence System. It may have been shredded. We
kept the more interesting ones, though. People most likely to come back and
haunt us. What was the sexual assault?'
'He raped a seventeen-year-old boy in Richmond Park. Tied him up and threatened
him with a knife.'
The constable scratched the side of his face. 'Hmm. That's definitely the sort
of person we should have kept. I'll have to check in the archives. What did you
say this bloke's name was?'
'Korsakov. Stefan Korsakov.'
The constable began to move alongside the metal filing cabinets, which were
just big enough to hold the old intelligence cards. As he did, he spoke to
himself: 'K, K, K, K ... here we are.' He stopped and opened the cabinet
containing records of people whose surname began with K. He fingered through
the files.
'Korsakov. Korsakov. Stefan Korsakov.' He pulled a thin card from the cabinet.
'You're in luck. We kept his card.' His smile soon turned to a frown. 'Bloody
typical.'
'Problem?' Sally asked.
'The photographs. They're not here. Some bastard's taken the lot.'
'Did I kill Daniel Graydon? No, Inspector, I didn't. No matter how hard you
find that to believe, it's the truth.' Hellier's eyes were giving nothing away.
Damn, he was difficult to read.
'Why did you lie to us?' Sean asked. 'You told us you were never in Daniel
Graydon's flat, which leaves me very confused as to how your fingerprint ended
up on the underside of his bathroom door handle.'
Hellier sighed. 'I lied to you, and that was wrong. I was foolish to do so and
I can only apologize for wasting your time. I pray to God I haven't distracted
you from catching the person responsible.'
Sean didn't believe a word.
'I have been to Daniel's flat. I was a client of his. I've been so for the past
four or five months.'
'And on the night he died?' Sean asked.
'No. I didn't see him the night he was killed. I didn't go to his flat that
night. I hadn't been to his flat for over a week.'
'You see,' Sean said, 'whoever killed Daniel got into his flat without breaking
in. We believe Daniel let them in. Now what sort of person would Daniel let
into his flat at three in the morning? A friend, perhaps? Or maybe ...' Sean
paused a second to make sure he still held Hellier's gaze '... a client? One
who made regular visits. One he thought he could trust.'
Templeman could stay silent no longer. 'These questions are totally
hypothetical. If you have evidence ...'
Hellier put a hand on Templeman's forearm. Templeman fell silent. 'I want to
answer their questions. Any questions. I didn't go to his flat that night.'
'So why did you lie about never having been to Daniel's flat? You knew this was
a murder investigation. You must have known the serious consequences of lying
to us. You're not a stupid man.'
Hellier looked at the floor and spoke. 'Shame, Inspector. I don't expect you to
understand. I only wish you could.'
Sean had had about all he could stomach. Most of his childhood he'd felt
nothing but shame. Shame and fear. Listening to Hellier's false pleadings made
him feel physically sick.
'You live a lie. You lie to your wife, kids, family, friends. You pay young men
to have sex with you and then curl up in bed with your wife. You lie to the
police, even though you know that may delay our investigation. And now you want
me to believe you lied because you were ashamed of your sexual preferences. I
doubt you've ever been ashamed of anything in your entire life.'
Hellier looked up from the floor. His eyes were glassy. 'You're wrong,
Inspector. I am ashamed. Ashamed of it all. I'm ashamed of my life.'
Sean studied him for a few seconds, looking deep into the darkness that he knew
seethed behind Hellier's eyes. 'So what was so special about Daniel?' He wanted
to keep it personal. 'Why keep going back to the same boy?' He used the word
'boy' deliberately.
'I have needs. Daniel helped me with those needs.'
'Enlighten me.'
'I practise sado-masochistic sex. So did Daniel. I went to him for that. I
generally saw him once every two to three weeks. That's what I was trying to
hide. I was a fool, I know.'
'What did this practice involve?' Sean asked.
'That's hardly relevant,' Templeman interjected.
'There are unexplained marks on the victim's body. Mr Hellier's sexual
behaviour may explain those marks. It's relevant.'
'Nothing too shocking,' Hellier answered. 'I would tie him up, by the wrists
usually. With rope. We used blindfolds, sometimes whips. Mainly it was
role-playing. Harmless, but not something I wanted the world to know about.'
'I can understand that,' Donnelly said.
'Did he ever tie you up?' Sean asked.
'No. Never.'
'So when you say sado-masochistic, you filled the sadist's role, yes?'
'Not always. Daniel would beat me sometimes, but I never felt comfortable being
in bondage. Daniel said I lacked confidence. He was probably right.'
Hellier had an answer for everything. Sean dropped the address book on the
table. It was still in the plastic evidence bag. 'What's this?' he asked.
'An address book,' Hellier answered. 'Obviously.'
'It was pretty well hidden for an address book. No names either, just initials
and numbers.'
'It contains certain contacts of mine I would rather my wife and family didn't
know about.' It was an answer that made sense. Like all his answers.
'Is Daniel's number in here?' Sean asked.
Hellier hesitated. Sean noticed it. 'No.'
Why would that be, Sean wondered. Here was his secret book, yet one of his
biggest secrets wasn't in it. That made no sense. 'You sure his number's not in
here?'
'Yes,' Hellier said. 'His number's not in there.'
Sean decided to let it go for now, until he understood more. 'And the cash: I
believe it was about fifty thousand in mixed currency, mainly US dollars?'
'I like to keep a decent amount of cash about. These are uncertain times we
live in, Inspector.'
'And the money spread across the world in various bank accounts belonging to
you? Hundreds of thousands, from what we can see.' Sean knew these questions
would get him no further, but they had to be asked.
'One thing I won't do, Inspector, is apologize for my wealth. I work hard and
I'm well rewarded. Everything I have, I earned. My accounts are in order. I can
show you where the money came from and the Inland Revenue can unfortunately
vouch I'm telling the truth.'
Sean was getting nowhere and he knew it. He needed to knock Hellier out of his
stride - get personal and see how Hellier reacted. 'Inland Revenue, your
account, your job at Butler and Mason - it's all very top end, isn't it?' He
noticed a small, involuntary contraction of Hellier's pupils that disappeared
as quickly as it came. 'And you, in your thousand-pound suits and
three-hundred-pound shoes - you're a polished act, James, I'll give you that.'
'I don't know where you're going with this,' Templeman interrupted. 'It hardly
seems relevant or proper.'
Sean ignored him. 'But underneath that veneer of yours, there's an angry man,
isn't there, James? So what is it that's really pissing you off? Come on,
James, what is it? What are you trying to hide? A working-class background?
Maybe an illegitimate child somewhere? Or did you disgrace yourself in some
previous job - got caught with your hand in the cookie jar - everything was
smoothed over, but still you were shown the door? Come on, James - what is it
you're hiding from me - from everyone?'
Hellier just stared straight into him, his eyes never blinking, lips sealed
tightly shut, possibly the faintest trace of a smirk on his face as his muscles
tensed, controlling his facial reactions, making him impossible to read.
'You know, James,' Sean continued, 'you can have it all - the job, the money,
the wife and kids, the Georgian house in Islington - but you'll never really be
like them. You'll never be accepted as one of them, not really. You'll never be
like ... like Sebastian Gibran, and you know it.' Another contraction of
Hellier's pupils told Sean he'd hit a raw nerve. 'You can try and look like
him, even sound like him, but you'll never be like him. He was born into that
role. He's the genuine article, while you're a fake - a cheap imitation [?] and
you can't stand it, can you?'
He leaned back, but still Hellier wouldn't break, sitting silently, his hands
resting on the table, one on top of the other, seemingly unmoved.
Sean tapped a pen on the table. He had one other question he was burning to
ask, something that just didn't make sense about the fingerprint they'd found,
but some instinct warned him that it wasn't the right time yet. Like a champion
poker player knowing when to slap his ace down and when to hold back, a voice
screamed in his head to save the question until he himself understood its
significance.
'We'll have to check on what you've said, so unless you've anything to add,
then this interview is concluded.'
'No. I have nothing to add.'
'In that case, the time is seven fifty-eight and this interview is concluded.'
Donnelly clicked the tape recorder off.
'Now what?' Templeman asked.
'No doubt you'd like another private consultation with your client, and then
he'll be returned to his cell while we decide what's going to happen to him.'
'There's no reason to keep Mr Hellier in custody any longer. He's answered all
of your questions and should be released immediately. Without charge, I should
add.'
'I don't think so,' Sean dismissed him.
Templeman was still protesting vigorously as Sean and Donnelly left the
interview room. A uniformed police constable guarded the door. Sean and
Donnelly headed back to their murder inquiry office.
Sean felt deflated. The interview hadn't gone well. Except for one thing. Why
wasn't Daniel's name in Hellier's secret book? That made no sense. Somehow and
in some way it was another piece of the puzzle.
Sally quickly studied the man who opened the front door of the detached
Surbiton house. He looked about fifty years old, five-nine. His slim arms and
legs, combined with a beer belly, reminded her of a spider. His hair was thick
and sandy coloured, his eyes green and sharp. Sally saw an intelligence and a
confidence behind them. She reckoned that Paul Jarratt had been a good
detective during his years as a Metropolitan Police officer.
'Mr Jarratt?' Sally held out a hand. Jarratt accepted it. 'DS Sally Jones.
Sorry to call unannounced like this, but I was in the neighbourhood and
wondered if you wouldn't mind helping me out with a case I'm working on.'
'A case?' Jarratt was surprised.
'A murder, actually,' Sally told him. 'A few years ago you dealt with a case
involving a man who could be a suspect for our murder.'
'You'd better come in then,' said Jarratt.
She entered the tidy house and followed Jarratt to a large, comfortable
kitchen. 'Tea? Coffee? Or something cold?' he offered.
'Tea would be good. Milk and one please.'
'I'll make a pot,' Jarratt said, smiling.
'So how long you been out for?' she asked. Half the force dreamed of being out.
The other half dreaded it. Which was Jarratt?
'About four years now. Ill health. An old back injury finally caught up with me
five years short of my thirty. I qualified for a full pension and some medical
benefits, so I'm not complaining. I get a bit bored at times, but you know ...
Anyway, what can I help you with?'
Sally recognized the cue to get down to business. 'I'm investigating a murder.
A bad one. Young gay man, Daniel Graydon, stabbed and beaten to death.'
'A homophobic attack?' Jarratt asked.
'No, we don't think so. Something else, although we're not quite certain what.
Which is where you may be able to help.'
'Well, I'm not sure about that,' Jarratt answered. 'I spent most of my time on
the Fraud Squad. Number-crunching was my game. Not murders.'
'I appreciate that, but other than working on the Fraud Squad you also did a
spell in the CID office at Richmond.' It sounded like a question, but it wasn't.
'Yes. That's right. From about ninety-five till about ninety-eight, as best as
I can remember. Then I got back on the Fraud Squad.'
'It was a case you dealt with at Richmond that interests me [?] a man called
Stefan Korsakov, back in ninety-six. He'd been arrested by Parks Police for ...'
'Raping a young boy,' Jarratt interrupted. 'He bound and gagged him in Richmond
Park. Threatened him with a stiletto knife, then raped him. I shouldn't think
I'll ever forget Stefan Korsakov. And if you'd met him, you wouldn't either.'
There was silence in the kitchen. The comment was unusual. Police officers
never exaggerated the impact criminals had on them. Sally wondered what it
could have been about Korsakov that had Jarratt so spooked. She tried hard to
think when a suspect had ever affected her in that way. Nothing came to mind.
She sensed Jarratt's fear of Korsakov was personal.
'What made him so memorable?' she asked.
'No remorse. Absolutely none. His only regret was that he got caught. And that
only bothered him because it meant he was off the street and wouldn't be able
to do the same thing again to someone else.
'He never said so during interview - in fact, he never said anything during
interview - but I knew he would have killed that young lad if he hadn't been
disturbed. There's no doubt. It was a hell of a blow when the boy's family
wouldn't let us prosecute him for the rape. I can still remember the smirk on
Korsakov's face when I told him the charge had been dropped. Talk about the
devil looking after his own. It would have been better for everyone if he'd
taken a long fall from a high window. Know what I mean?'
Sally smiled uncomfortably, but didn't answer. Jarratt sensed her reaction. He
stood and moved to the sink, pouring his tea away as Sally watched him and
tried to sense his emotions. Jarratt's nausea looked real enough.
'I'm sure I don't have to tell you what it feels like to watch an animal like
Korsakov walk away, knowing it's only a matter of time before he rapes again,
or graduates to murder.'
'But he didn't walk,' Sally reminded him, 'he went down for the frauds. I hear
you made certain of it.' It was a compliment.
'Yes, I made certain he went down for something. I got a sniff of Korsakov's
little fraud operation and dug in. He went down, all right, but it was a hollow
victory. He got four years. That was all. All those people he screwed. And we
never recovered the money. No matter what we tried, we couldn't find it.
'I even had a couple of old friends from the Serious Fraud Squad in the City
who owed me a favour help me look for it, but nothing. He was a clever bastard.
I'll give him that.'
Sally was interested in the fraud. It helped build the picture of Korsakov. But
she was more interested in his violent nature. That was the road that could
lead to his capture.
'Did he show awareness of forensic evidence or police procedures?' Sally asked.
'Definitely,' came the unhesitating reply. 'The clothes he wore, the use of a
condom, the victim he picked, and even the venue was pretty good. He just got
unlucky, and thank God he did.
'And he would have learnt. He would have got better and better. He was clever
enough to learn from his own mistakes. Very organized too. His frauds were
brilliantly simple. And as I've already mentioned, clever enough to hide the
cash where no one could find it.
'That's not easy to do these days,' Jarratt continued. 'Billionaire drug
dealers, bent City accountants, corrupt governments - they all spend fortunes
trying to hide the money in the legitimate banking system. You can't keep
millions of pounds under the mattress and, even if you could, no one accepts
cash any more, not for major purchases. Cash makes people nervous. You've got
to get it into the banking system. That's where we so often catch them out and
recover the money, but not with Korsakov. He was too cunning.
'So tell me, DS Jones. He's committed another rape or murder, hasn't he?'
Sally hesitated before answering. She was unsure why. 'We don't know if it's
Korsakov. There are similarities between your case and one we're investigating.
So we're doing a little background digging. One thing's bothering me though.'
Jarratt looked at her, expressionless. 'Go on.'
'Everything points to Korsakov being a repeat offender. You said it yourself,
that he'd offend again.'
'Yes.'
'Yet he hasn't come to police notice at all. No convictions, arrests, no
information reports. Nothing.'
'Then he's either out of the country or he's dead,' Jarratt answered. 'Only
pray it's the latter.'
'Or maybe we just haven't caught him.'
Jarratt gave a low laugh. 'I know we're not perfect, but there's never been a
repeat offender who hasn't been caught within a couple of years. Even in the
dark ages, before computer cross-referencing, DNA, Crimewatch, we still caught
the people eventually. They would always make a mistake.
'No. If he was in the country he would be offending. He wouldn't be able to
stop himself any more than we could stop treating everybody with suspicion.
It's in his nature. Or he may have become a ghost, never keeping one identity
too long, never staying in one place longer than a couple of months. He's
capable.'
'I'll check with public records,' said Sally. 'See if they have anything on
him. And thanks to you, we'll have a set of fingerprints for him. I'll have
them compared to any marks recovered from our scene.'
Jarratt's eyes narrowed. 'If it's a death certificate or fingerprints you find,
then please call me. If he's sunning himself in Thailand, I'd rather not know.'
Sally thought Jarratt suddenly looked old. She wouldn't push him any further.
'Well, thanks for your time,' she said, and stood to leave. 'Oh, one more
thing.'
'Yes?'
'You did take photographs of Korsakov, when you charged him?'
'Of course.'
'It's just, when I checked his intelligence records at Richmond, there were no
photographs attached.'
'Unfortunate, but not unusual,' Jarratt replied.
'Can you think of anyone else who may have wanted or needed photographs of
Korsakov?' Sally asked. 'Maybe I can still track them down.'
'Not really,' Jarratt answered. 'No one's ever approached me about him.'
Sally sighed. 'Oh well, never mind.'
Jarratt led her to the front door. His hand rested on the handle, but he didn't
turn it. 'Can I ask what put you on to Korsakov?' he asked. 'What put you on to
me?'
'Method Index,' Sally told him. 'You were down as the officer in the case.'
Jarratt said nothing. 'Oh shit,' Sally suddenly said, fumbling in her handbag.
'I almost forgot. Could you do me a favour and have a look at this photo?' She
pulled the surveillance photograph of Hellier out and handed it to Jarratt. 'Do
you recognize him?'
Jarratt held the photograph and looked at it without interest. Sally saw
nothing in his face. 'No,' he said. 'Is it someone I should know?'
'Just a loose end I wanted to tie up, and now I have. Anyway, thanks for your
time.'
'Anytime,' Jarratt said. 'It's nice to feel useful again.' They shook hands
before Sally left and headed to her car.
'He's a sly one, all right,' Donnelly said, 'thinking on his feet. Covering our
evidence as we find it.'
'Then we'll have to find more,' said Sean.
'How about DNA? Body samples?'
'Irrelevant,' Sean reminded him. 'He admits to having sex with the victim, and
now he admits to being in his flat [?] any samples we find prove nothing. That
wouldn't matter if we were to find the victim's blood on Hellier or his
clothing, but it's going to take the lab days to process the things we seized
today.'
'So what are we going to do - just let him walk out of here?'
'That's exactly what we're going to do,' Sean answered. 'We charge him now,
we're saying we've got enough evidence to convict him. We both know that's the
rule. Once he's charged, we lose the right to question further or to take more
samples. We charge him now and we couldn't even make him take part in a fucking
identification parade. I've made that mistake before. I'm not going to make it
again. We have to come at him from another angle. One he won't be expecting.'
'You're talking about identifying another crime he's committed?' Donnelly
asked, without enthusiasm.
'I am,' Sean confirmed, noting Donnelly's scepticism. 'Something occurred to me
during the interview. What if he's making it up - the whole story about having
an ongoing client-customer relationship?'
'I don't follow.'
'What if he wasn't having any sort of relationship with Graydon? What would
that mean?'
Donnelly shrugged in confusion.
'It could mean he'd selected Graydon. Simply picked him from the crowd and
killed him. All this bollocks about seeing him every few weeks, Graydon taking
care of his physical needs, it's all a smokescreen, trying to confuse us -
throw us off the scent. He's trying to lead us by the nose in the wrong
direction. Maybe it's so much simpler than we were thinking: he went looking
for a victim and found one, then he killed him. But he made mistakes - he was
recognized in the club and he left a single print at the scene. Now he's
covering his tracks, trying to make up for those mistakes. He knows that if he
admits he's only ever seen Graydon once, then he's flagging himself up as a
predator. He'll bring us right down on top of him. Much better this way. He
thinks he's smart enough to get away with it, and that will be his downfall.'
'But we know he did see the victim at least once before,' Donnelly reminded
him. 'The doorman, Young, saw them together outside the club, remember? He was
a distance away, but he was sure it was them and he was sure they headed off
together, so he couldn't have just picked him up the night he killed him.'
Sean had already considered everything Donnelly had said. 'Of course he'd seen
him before. Been with him before. That was important to him.'
'Why?' Donnelly asked.
'Because that made the victim real. He needed to taste him and feel him.
Fantasize about him. So he picks him up inside or outside the club, it doesn't
really matter, and they probably go back to Graydon's. They have sex. Hellier
drinks it all in - absorbs everything [?] and once he's sure Graydon is worthy
of his special attentions he leaves, but watches him. He watches him for days,
his excitement building, the fantasy in his mind growing increasingly violent
and depraved until he can stand it no more, so he waits for him, outside the
club. When Graydon eventually appears, alone, he follows him. Stalks him. Maybe
he followed him all the way home or maybe he stopped him in the street - the
victim wouldn't be too afraid; after all, they'd already had paying sex
together. But whatever happened once they were back at the flat, Hellier made
his fantasy come true. Only, as we know, he made two mistakes: the fingerprint
and being seen with the victim. So he spins us this story about some sort of
relationship he was having with the victim and has us chasing our tails,
desperately trying to establish some logical reason why he would want to kill
Graydon, knowing we'll never find one, because there isn't one. And while we're
looking for it we'll miss the real reason he killed Daniel Graydon - because he
wanted to. Because he had to.'
'Christ,' Donnelly cursed. 'So what now?'
'Take someone with you and bail Hellier out. Tell him to come back in two
weeks. His brief will ask why he needs to come back. Tell him we'll be checking
his story. That Hellier hasn't been eliminated yet.
'And scramble the surveillance team again. I want Hellier picked up the second
he steps out of the station. We run twenty-four-hour coverage. We keep the
pressure on and wait for him to drop the ball. Sooner or later he's going to
hang himself. Who knows, maybe he already has.'
Hellier stood in the corridor of the police station, waiting to exit the
building. First Templeman went outside to ensure no one was about. When he
returned, the news wasn't good.
'I'm sorry, James. Looks like the media's got hold of this.'
'What?' Hellier snapped. 'You sure they're here for me?'
'I'm afraid so. They've already asked me for a statement. They know you've been
arrested on suspicion of murder.'
'That bastard Corrigan. He told them. He's trying to destroy me.' Hellier's
words were venomous.
'Listen,' said Templeman, 'you need to stay calm. I'll speak to them, deny
you've been arrested, tell them you're helping the police with their inquiries.
You stay in here until I'm finished, then I'll bring the car around. And I also
recommend you cover your face when we leave.'
'What?' Hellier's voice was raised.
'Just in case there's a photographer sneaking about. You can use my raincoat.'
'You want me to crawl out of here with that over my head, like some paedophile?
You might as well tell them I'm guilty.'
'Please, James, try and stay calm.' Templeman almost had his hands on Hellier's
chest. 'A name's nothing if they don't have a face to go with it.'
Hellier sounded cold. 'Fine, but hear this. No one humiliates me without paying
the price.'
'I wouldn't be talking about revenge if I were you, James,' Templeman advised.
A look of disgust spread across Hellier's face. He put his face close to
Templeman's. Templeman could smell a virile, animal stench on Hellier's breath.
'You do as I fucking tell you and get me out of here. I'm expected at the damn
industry awards dinner tonight. There'll be hell to pay if I'm not there.
Sebastian's already on my back.' Hellier stretched the stiffness out of his
neck, the cracking noise making the lawyer shudder. He snatched Templeman's
coat from him and gave him a final order. 'Get me a damn taxi.'
By the time Sally arrived back at the murder inquiry office it was already
early evening and she was keen to catch up on developments. The place was all
but deserted, except for Sean who sat alone in his office. Sally knocked on the
door frame, making him look up. 'Everything all right?' she asked.
'Wonderful,' Sean answered sarcastically.
'I take it Hellier didn't confess then.'
'Correct.'
'And his fingerprint in the victim's flat?'
'Said he'd lied earlier. He now admits to having been there on several
occasions in the past.'
'That's exactly what I'd say if I was in his position.'
'Me too,' Sean agreed. 'We bailed him, pending further inquiries. Anyway, how
did you get on with what's-his-name?'
'Korsakov,' she reminded him. 'I managed to track down one of the original
investigating officers, which was interesting enough, but he couldn't tell me
much more than Method Index had. The intelligence record at Richmond was a bit
thin, no photographs either.
'If you have no objections, I thought I'd have Korsakov's prints compared to
any recovered from the scene. You never know your luck.'
'Be my guest,' Sean told her. 'The identification officer dealing is IDO
Collins. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go home before my kids forget what
I look like. You should go home too. Get some sleep.'
'I will,' she said, then hesitated. 'If he's guilty, we'll get him sooner or
later. It'll only be a matter of time before we can prove it.'
'Of course we will,' Sean assured her. 'We always do, in the end. By the way,
speaking of Hellier, did you show your man the photograph?'
'I did.'
'And?'
'Meant nothing to him. Sorry.'
'Don't worry about it,' Sean said. 'It was a long shot anyway.'
Jarratt sat at home with his wife and daughters. An article on the local
evening news programme caught his eye. Somebody had been arrested for the
murder of Daniel Graydon. That was the name DS Jones had mentioned. The name of
the murder victim.
The reporter standing outside Peckham police station had used the term,
'helping police with their inquiries'. Jarratt knew that meant he'd been
arrested.
It was only a small item on the news. The death of a prostitute caused little
stir in London these days. He listened to the reporter's closing statement.
'Although the police have so far refused to comment, it is believed that the
man helping with their inquiries is one James Hellier, a renowned accountant
and partner with the respected firm of Butler and Mason, whose offices are in
the exclusive Knightsbridge area of central London.
'The solicitor representing the man believed to be Mr Hellier claimed his
client had nothing to hide and was happy to assist the police in every way
possible, although he declined to confirm the man was indeed James Hellier.'
This was disastrous. Everything he feared most was becoming reality. Jarratt's
chest was close to exploding. He excused himself and went to the kitchen. He
poured too much whisky into the first glass he saw. His hands shook as he took
large sips. He needed to calm down, get control of himself and the situation.
He thought he might be about to have a heart attack. He knew what was coming
next.
Sean sat quietly staring at the television without really watching it. He'd
chosen to sit on a chair instead of next to Kate on the sofa. She could feel
his tension.
'Sean,' she called across to him. Nothing. She called again. 'Sean.' He rolled
his head to face her. 'Do you want to talk about it?' she asked.
Sean puffed his lips and exhaled. 'Not really.'
'It might help to talk,' she persevered.
'It's nothing,' he lied. 'I thought I had our prime suspect today, but he
wormed off the hook.'
'You'll get him. Remember what you always tell me: it's only a matter of time,
no matter how difficult it may look at first.'
'Yeah, but this one bothers me. Every time I think I've got him cornered, he
worms his way out. At first I thought he was just thinking on his feet, coming
up with answers to fit the evidence against him as and when he had to, but now
I'm not so sure. I think he has a strategy. The moment he knew we were on to
him, he invented a story to lead us into a blind alley - and it's my fault. I
showed my hand too soon. I should never have let him know he was a suspect. I
should never have gone to his office in the first place. I should have watched
him. Watched and waited for him to lead us to the evidence. Now I have to play
the game with him, and from what I've seen so far he's a bloody good player. If
I didn't know better, I'd say he was even enjoying it.'
Sean sprang from his chair and made for the kitchen. He grabbed a glass and
filled it with water. Kate followed him. She'd seen him like this before,
usually during difficult cases, but not always. It was better to get him to
talk than allow him to dwell on matters. She wouldn't let him slip away into
the dark places his past could take him. 'Don't let it get on top of you,' she
warned. To anyone else it would have been an innocent enough comment, but not
to Sean.
'What's that supposed to mean?' he asked.
Kate realized her mistake. 'Nothing. I only meant don't let this case get too
personal.'
'It's always personal,' Sean told her. 'For me, it's always personal. It's how
I stop them.'
'I know, but you need to be careful. Don't try and do everything alone.'
'Why?' Sean asked. 'Afraid I'll lose it?'
'That's not what I meant.'
'Isn't it?' he said, his voice calm.
She knew his past, about his childhood, his father. The beatings and abuse.
Everything. Sean had always been honest with her about that. She understood
that the rage and hate from his childhood was still inside him somewhere. How
could it not be? But she knew he was nothing like his father, like the people
he hunted. If she'd had any doubts, no matter how small, she would never have
married him, let alone had his children. This was just Sean venting his
frustrations. She'd dealt with it before and she knew she'd have to deal with
it again.
'Don't do this, Sean,' she pleaded. 'I don't deserve this.'
It was enough to make Sean pause. 'I'm sorry,' he said. He sipped his water.
'Do you ever think about it though? Aren't you ever a little afraid I may
become like him?'
Kate knew he was talking about his father. 'No. Never. You realized you had
this thing inside of you, and you wanted to stop it, stop it before anyone got
hurt, and you did.'
'With a lot of help,' he reminded her.
'None of it would have worked if you hadn't wanted it to.'
'Christ,' Sean said, before taking another swig of water, 'sometimes I feel
like such a fucking stereotype: boy is abused by his father, the boy grows into
a man only to become an abuser himself. From victim to offender. It's all too
fucking predictable.'
'But you didn't,' she reminded him. 'You grew up to be a cop. You use your past
to help people, not to hurt them.' A silence fell between them. Kate moved
towards him and held his face in her hands. 'Your past is a curse, but it has
left you with a gift. You can think like these people. You can recognize them
when others see nothing. You can predict them.'
'Not this one,' Sean told her. 'I can't see through his eyes yet. I don't know
why, but I can't. Whenever I try, it's like someone pulling a screen across,
blocking me.'
'It'll come,' she assured him. 'Give it time and it will come.'
There was a silence, then Sean spoke again. 'Do you know what it's like, being
able to think like them?'
'No,' Kate answered. 'I look at you when you're like this and I thank God I
can't. Who would want that burden?'
'I can feel what they feel,' he said. 'I can sense their excitement, their
relief. Pain. Confusion.'
Kate stroked his hair, the way a mother would a child. 'And you use it to stop
them. To stop them hurting people.'
'Sometimes I feel like I'm too close. So close that I could slip into darkness
any second.'
'Then perhaps you should see Dr Richardson? It has been a while since you spoke
to her.'
'No,' Sean snapped a little. 'I'll be fine. I'll sort it out myself. I just
need you to remind me now and then. To remind me who I really am.'
'You know who you are,' Kate reminded him. 'Ever since you decided you were
going to be a policeman. Ever since that moment, you've known exactly who you
are.'
'I suppose so,' he answered unconvincingly.
'There's something else though, isn't there? You've got that look on your face
you always get when something's drilling a hole in your head. So what is it?'
'I saw something strange today,' he confessed.
'The jobs we do, we see strange things every day.'
He ignored her interruption. 'Outside my office window, on the flat roof below,
in amongst the ventilation outlets. It was a dead bird. At first I thought it
was just another dead pigeon, but then I realized it was a magpie. I knew it
was a magpie because other magpies kept landing next to it. I assumed they'd
come to feed on its body, but I was wrong - they were bringing it gifts: twigs,
small shiny stones, things to eat. I watched them for a while and then I
realized, I realized what they were doing. They were mourning its death.
Magpies mourn their dead. I never knew that.'
'And that upset you?' Kate asked.
'No. Not upset me; made me wonder, that's all.'
'Wonder what?'
'We don't judge them, do we? Magpies. When they're feeding on roadkill or
killing the chicks of other birds as they try to hide in their nests, we don't
judge them. We don't judge them because, as far as we're concerned, they're
only doing what's in their nature to do. They're just animals, after all. But
that's what I thought separated us from animals, the fact that we mourn our
dead. Only now I know magpies do too. A murderous, heartless killer that mourns
its dead.'
'Meaning?' Kate asked.
'Meaning maybe we're not as different from the animals killing each other to
survive as we'd like to think. Meaning maybe that's what the men I hunt are
doing? Killing because it's in their nature to. They were born to do it, yet we
pass judgement on them as if they were normal like you and ...' He stopped
before including himself.
'Whether it's in their nature to do it or not, someone has to stop them, and
right now that someone is you.'
'I know.'
Kate sighed. 'I'm proud of what you do. I'm proud it's you who goes after them.
It scares me sometimes, but I wouldn't want it any other way.'
Sean pushed his glass away. 'Thank you,' he told her softly. 'Thank you for
putting up with me. Promise me one thing though.'
'What?' Kate asked.
'Don't ever let me go. Don't give up on me.'
Kate slipped her hands around the back of his neck and pulled him closer.
'That'll never happen,' she promised. 'I love you. Just don't push me away.
Don't ever push me away.'
Sebastian Gibran sat at his table in the middle of the Criterion Restaurant in
Piccadilly Circus, an exclusive, expensive and cavernous former ballroom in the
heart of the West End. Usually the reserve of the rich, famous and wannabes,
tonight it was for the exclusive use of London's financiers. The lights were
dimmer than usual, but Gibran could still make out pretty much everyone in the
place. As he absentmindedly joined in with small talk he searched the room for
Hellier. He couldn't see him and checked his watch again. Hellier was already
late, appetizers had been served and eaten. Soon the various speeches would
begin. He knew he wouldn't be the only one who had noticed Hellier's absence.
His searching was disturbed by the restaurant manager appearing at his
shoulder, leaning in to speak quietly in his ear.
'Excuse me, sir, but some gentlemen would like to see you in the private bar.'
Gibran knew who the gentlemen were and he had a good idea why they wanted to
see him. He nodded once to show the manager he understood while pushing his
chair away to stand, throwing the napkin from his lap on to the table.
Gibran moved inconspicuously across the restaurant and up a short flight of
stairs to the private bar, various security and waiting staff casually moving
out of his way, as if they'd all been warned of his coming. Two gorillas in
thousand-pound suits held the doors open for him as he entered the bar and was
immediately ushered past the most senior people in the world of finance he'd
ever seen assembled in one place to a corner where two ageing men sat in large
comfortable chairs, at a table made up for their exclusive use. The men had
brown skin and silver hair, crystal-clear, sharp, intelligent eyes, and wore
platinum watches vulgarly encrusted with diamonds. Gibran could imagine the
cars they drove, the houses they lived in and the call girls they would sleep
with later that night. One had a glass of blood-red wine on the table in front
of him and the other a martini; the latter was smoking a fat Cuban cigar and
nobody told him he couldn't. Gibran recognized them as two of the owners of
Butler and Mason. He'd seen them twice before and spoken with them only once.
Neither of them stood to greet him. The one sucking the cigar spoke first.
'Sebastian.' He had an Austrian accent. 'Sorry to drag you away from dinner,
but it's been such a long time since we've had a chance to speak.'
Gibran resisted the temptation to remind them that they never had really
spoken. 'It certainly has,' he managed to reply, but instantly noticed the old
men's displeasure at his answer, as if he was somehow disrespecting them. 'But
I understand how busy you must be and I'm kept well informed of everything I
need to know.'
'Of course,' the wine drinker reassured him in an Eastern European accent, 'and
we hope you understand how valued you are to our organization.'
'I've always felt I belonged at Butler and Mason.' Gibran told them what he
knew they wanted to hear. 'I believe in what we do, and that's the most
important thing for me.'
'Excellent,' the smoker declared. 'But now we hear that one of our employees
has drawn unwanted attention to our business. Unwanted attention from the
police.'
Gibran found he needed to clear his throat before speaking. 'Bad news travels
fast,' he said, but it prompted no response. The smoker puffed on his cigar and
stared at Gibran through the thick clouds that floated from his mouth. 'It
won't be a problem,' he tried to reassure the old men. 'I believe it's a simple
case of mistaken identity. I expect the police to clear things up very soon.'
Gibran could feel their eyes dissecting him and knew that if he made one wrong
move now, by morning his desk would have been cleared for him and his name
wiped from the company records. But the pressure didn't disturb him: he was
used to it. He enjoyed it and the old men knew it, that's why they paid him as
well as they did.
'Should we suspend him while we wait for this ... this misunderstanding to be
cleared up?' the wine drinker asked.
'Best not to,' Gibran explained. 'We don't have enough evidence of any
wrongdoing and neither do the police, or so his legal representatives tell me.
They're keeping me fully informed of any developments. For now, I'd rather keep
him where I can see him.'
'Does this employee know you're talking to his legal people?' the smoker asked.
'No. He believes he has client confidentiality.'
'Good,' the wine drinker eventually said. 'We know you're aware of your
responsibilities.'
Another veiled warning, Gibran thought: clear up the Hellier problem or don't
expect to be around too long at Butler and Mason. 'I'm always aware of my
responsibilities, gentlemen,' he replied calmly. 'Believe me, there's nothing I
take more seriously.'
'Of course you are,' the smoker agreed. 'You have a great deal to offer. Which
is why we were wondering if you have ever considered becoming involved in
politics?'
Gibran found it difficult to hide his surprise. 'Politics?' he asked. 'I'm
sorry, gentlemen. I'm not a political animal.'
The man with the cigar laughed, smoke spilling from his gaping mouth. 'Trust
me, to be successful in politics, it's better not to be too political.'
The wine drinker laughed in agreement, but Gibran didn't see the joke, just
their self-assured arrogance and condescending belief that somehow they
understood how everything worked. No, it went beyond that; they believed they
controlled how everything worked.
'We're not asking you to consider becoming an MP, merely whether you'd be
interested in a role as a Special Government Advisor. It could be arranged.
You'll find all governments are desperate for the advice someone like you could
offer them, otherwise all they have are civil servants whispering in their ears
about things they know nothing about.'
'Which political party did you have in mind?' he asked them.
Again the mocking laughter of wisdom from old men. 'Whichever one you want,'
the wine drinker answered. 'Our organization makes very generous donations to
both the main players. We feel a man like you could almost immediately be
placed into a position of real influence at government level. Advisor to the
Minister for Trade, perhaps?'
'Or perhaps the Foreign Secretary would interest you?' the smoker offered. 'We
have to plan for the future to remain competitive. To have someone of influence
in the heart of government would be very useful for our organization.'
'Well, I'll certainly take it under consideration,' Gibran promised, 'but I've
always enjoyed working away from the limelight. I like to make things happen
without being seen. It seems to suit my personal ambitions better.'
'Fine,' the smoker replied. 'But don't take too long to make up your mind. What
we're offering you is something very special. Remember, Sebastian, religion is
dead. These days it's not down to priests and popes to tell us who to worship.
Heavenly gods are dead to mankind. It's the gods made of flesh and blood that
people worship. Urban gods. Would you like to be an urban god, Sebastian?'
Was that what these old men thought they were, Gibran asked himself. Gods? And
did they really believe he would ever want to be like them, old and weak? Their
power was an illusion, built on markets that could disappear overnight.
The smoker didn't wait for him to reply. 'And don't forget to take care of that
little problem we discussed, before it gets, embarrassing.'
'Of course,' Gibran said. 'But we should bear in mind that this particular
employee knows a great deal about our, shall we say, business practices. If it
was felt we needed to move him on, then I think it would be best to move him to
one of our less high-profile offices, in say Vancouver or Kuala Lumpur.
Somewhere we could still keep an eye on him. I would be uncomfortable having
someone with that amount of knowledge potentially working for a rival.'
'Agreed,' was all the wine drinker said.
Once again the restaurant manager appeared at his shoulder, speaking softly
into his ear. Gibran nodded once that he understood.
'Well, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen,' he addressed the old men while getting
to his feet, 'it appears to be speech time.' They said nothing as they
disappeared behind a cloud of heavy, white smoke.
Hellier entered the Criterion shortly after 9 p.m., late, but unconcerned. He
took his seat at the table and was relieved to see Gibran wasn't there: at
least now he could order himself a proper drink. He nodded at the other people
around his table, some of whom he knew and others he didn't. He didn't care
either way, and neither did he care what they thought of him. He grabbed a
passing waiter.
'Large Scotch with ice,' he demanded. 'And make sure it's single malt.' He
released the waiter and searched the room for Gibran, who was nowhere to be
seen. He was probably hiding in a toilet somewhere, preparing his annual
speech. Hellier wished they'd let him make a speech. He'd like nothing more
than to tell a room full of sanctimonious shits a few home truths.
As he waited for his drink and the next speaker his mind kept wandering to
Corrigan. Hellier knew cops, he understood how they worked, but there was
definitely something about Corrigan that disturbed him, warned him to be more
careful than usual. He must beware of hubris, stay focused and stick to the
script. There was to be no ad-libbing on this one. Corrigan was dangerous to
him, he sensed it. His thoughts were disturbed by someone in a dinner jacket
and bow tie tapping a microphone on the small stage.
'Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our next speaker tonight, Sebastian
Gibran from Butler and Mason International Finance.' The room applauded
generously, if politely, while Hellier groaned inside. Thankfully his drink
arrived at the same time. He swallowed half of it in one go.
Gibran raised his hand to bring an end to the applause. 'As most of you know,'
he began, 'I'm not one for making public speeches. But it is always a special
privilege to be invited to address so many influential people from our
industry.'
Modest applause rippled through the room, drowning out the obscenities Hellier
was muttering under his breath.
'Thank you,' said Gibran, feigning modesty. 'Thank you.' He waited for the
applause to cease. 'I've worked in finance all my adult life, but never in more
trying times [?] times where the creation and ownership of wealth are seen as
morally corrupt, not just by those consumed with the politics of envy, but by
power-hungry politicians who are all too keen to appease the non-contributing
majority. They assume so much and know so little.
'A long time ago, one of the richest men in the world, when he was close to
death, gave away everything he had, absolutely everything. When asked why, he
said, "There is no greater sin than to be the richest man in the graveyard."'
Laughter floated around the room. Gibran continued before it had stopped. 'The
thing is, he was right. There is no point in wealth for wealth's sake. This is
not merely my personal ideology, this is the ideology of my organization.
'Since the banking sector abandoned all caution and reason in the pursuit of
quick individual profits, people have lost faith in anyone even remotely
connected to the financial markets, and that includes us. We have become fair
game for anyone looking to ascribe the blame for their own failings to the
mistakes of others, and we need to be aware that this is the brave new world in
which we all now live. Only the other day I was having dinner with my wife and
friends when a woman boldly informed me that the trouble with people like me is
we have no product, that all we do is make money for our masters who reward us
with money. That essentially we produce nothing. We're never going to make a
beautiful piece of furniture or educate a child. We don't build houses or save
the lives of the sick. We create nothing and therefore have no value ourselves.'
Hellier watched Gibran as his words silenced the audience who sat waiting for
him to continue, waiting for him to assure them that they did have value, did
have a place in the greater society. Hellier realized how different he was to
everyone else in the room, how the mere thought of exclusion from anything
terrified them, whereas he was able to embrace it when necessary, to make it
his greatest ally. But even he was drawn into the speech and found himself
eagerly awaiting Gibran's next words. Study him, Hellier told himself. Watch
Gibran perform and learn from it. Study his speech patterns and changes in
tone. Study his pauses and body movements, the way he looks around the room,
searching for eye contact. If he ever had to make a speech he would imitate
Gibran, imitate him exactly. His mind flashed back to the interview with
Corrigan - the accusation that he was no more than a cheap imitation, a generic
copy of Gibran. Corrigan had an insightfulness almost as acute as his own. He
must never forget that - if he wanted to win the game.
'So,' Gibran continued, 'I explained to that person that our very essence was
about creating product. I explained to her that without people like us there
would be no Microsoft Corporation. Bill Gates's brilliant idea would have
remained just that: an idea. It took finance raised by companies like ours to
make it reality. And what about pharmaceutical companies and the drugs they
make that save millions of lives: would any of them exist without finance to
make their birth possible? No, they would not, and nor would any other
non-state-owned business, be that a company making millions of cars or a family
business making postcards. They all needed finance to exist in the first place.
So, I told this woman, don't ever tell me that I have no product.' He took half
a step back from the microphone, triggering enthusiastic applause.
'But we must do more than this,' Gibran continued. 'There is no point in having
a small, separate class of the super-wealthy if the rest of society is reduced
to a disillusioned underclass of the jealous, living their lives without hope
or aspiration. In my heart I'm a socialist, but I believe all men and women
should be equally wealthy, not equally poor. However, no government can ever
achieve this. Their hands are tied by four-yearly elections and the need for
short-term success. To build a society of the future worth living in takes
time. It takes decades, not four years, which is why we must accept
responsibility for things that have been too long left for the government to
control. We should be financing the building of private but affordable schools.
And in those schools we should be educating children who want to learn in
environments free of disorder and dysfunction.'
Gibran paused to allow applause as Hellier looked around at the audience, who
were warming to Gibran's rhetoric.
'And we should finance the building of affordable private community hospitals,
where those who are sick and injured through no fault of their own can receive
immediate and expert care, unhindered by the need to treat smokers, drinkers
and the obese. And we should finance the building of private housing estates
with their own private police, paid to protect the families and homes of those
who live on them. Areas that will be safe from rioters and looters. And
eventually everyone will want this better way of life. They will no longer be
prepared to send their children to failing schools or their elderly relatives
to failing hospitals. And through the ethical use of profits, insurance and
payment protection, the public sector and the billions it sucks up and wastes
will become obsolete. Through finance, the private sector will succeed where
every government to date has failed.'
Applause erupted in the room, making Hellier laugh inwardly at how expertly
Gibran had played them. But his mood soon began to darken as he realized he was
witnessing the birth of Gibran as a worthy adversary; a dangerous adversary. So
now he had two: Corrigan and Gibran. But which one should he be most cautious
of? At least Corrigan was obvious and predictable, the raging bull who would
keep coming straight at him until he was defeated or victorious. But Gibran was
the snake in the grass, waiting to strike. He was the shark that swam below a
calm sea, waiting until he smelled blood in the water. Hellier would respect
the threats they represented, but he would never fear them. He watched as
Gibran's speech drew to a close.
'However,' Gibran warned his audience, 'such ambitions can only be achieved in
a new climate of competitive cooperation. Clearly, we cannot be seen to be
forming cartels, but true progress cannot be achieved by individual businesses
working towards individual goals. Cooperation is the key; but remember, we can
only ever be as strong as our weakest link.'
Gibran's eyes suddenly looked through the crowd and came to rest on Hellier,
who felt them burning into his skin as if Gibran was publicly branding him a
liability. Hellier resisted the temptation to smile: Gibran might think he was
smart, but he'd just showed Hellier his hand. No matter what happened next,
Hellier would be ready for him. When the time came, he would be ready.
13
I had to wait so very long before finding him. I searched and searched for
years, then finally, it was he who found me. He simply walked into my life one
day. Surely he had been sent to me, a gift from Nature herself.
His eyes betrayed him. Immediately I knew he and I were alike. We were the same
animal. There was no mistake. He had hidden his nature well, his facade of
normality would deceive anybody. Anybody but me, that is. But when he looked at
me he saw nothing. I could see the contempt he had for me, the same as he had
for everybody else. My disguise even hid me from my own kind. Now all I had to
do was wait a little while longer. A year or two. Then I could begin.
My favourite film is West Side Story. Why? Because of the violence. It's pure
and total violence. The dancing is violent. The music is violent. The scenery
is violent, so is the red sun that washes over the city in every scene. The
film's a statement about the dominance of violence over every other aspect of
life. Romeo and Juliet. Violence defeats love. Violence is the only truth.
I understand this. You do not. You hide from violence. Cower in its presence.
You damn it as the scourge of modern life. Punish your youth for being violent.
Try to ban it from your television. Try to stop it at your football matches.
Your government spends billions of pounds every year trying to remove violence
from society.
But violence is life. Without violence there would be no life. Violence is the
driving force that is life. It represents the ultimate beauty of life.
Evolution is violent. Species evolve through violent competition. The strong
kill the weak and so the species develops. Without violence we would still be
living in trees. No. Less than that. We would still be single-cell organisms.
And yet you treat violence as your enemy, when it is your greatest ally.
I understand violence. I embrace it. I harness it. Through violence I am
evolving into something beyond imagination.
14
Tuesday morning
Early morning and Sean was already at his desk. The office was growing
increasingly active as the detectives drifted into work. A knock at his open
door made him glance up. Superintendent Featherstone waited to be invited in.
'Boss,' Sean acknowledged. 'How's it going?'
Featherstone held two takeaway coffees. He placed one in front of Sean then sat
down. 'Never known a DI turn down a free coffee.'
'Thanks,' said Sean. As he lifted the drink, he realized why Featherstone was
there. Sean hadn't consulted with him prior to arresting Hellier. Technically,
he should have. 'While you're here, there are a few things I need to update you
on.'
'You don't say,' Featherstone said. 'Such as the arrest of a suspect, maybe?'
'Amongst other things ...'
'An arrest I learned about from the television.'
'I'm sorry,' said Sean. 'That shouldn't have happened, and it won't happen
again.'
'I know things can get a bit manic at times,' Featherstone said, 'but I'm here
to keep those that would otherwise interfere off your back so you can do what
you have to do. I can't do that if I don't know what's going on. In future,
make a quick call. Okay?'
'Of course,' Sean agreed. Featherstone was as good a senior officer as Sean
could hope for and he knew it. He needed to keep him onside.
'This James Hellier character,' Featherstone asked. 'You sure he's our man?'
'As sure as I can be, but that means nothing without some usable evidence.'
'If there's evidence to find, then you'll find it. Whatever course of action
you decide to take will get my backing.'
'Appreciated.'
Featherstone stood to leave. 'By the way, this Hellier [?] he sounds like the
sort of man who may have connections, if you understand my meaning.'
'I'll bear that in mind, guv. Before you go, are you still able to front a
media appeal for me?'
'You should do it yourself,' Featherstone answered. 'It would do you no harm to
increase your public profile. If you ever want to go for your chief
inspector's, it's the sort of bollocks they love to see on your CV.'
'Not really my thing,' Sean demurred.
'Your call. So, what do you have in mind?'
'I think it's time we did a press conference. I'll arrange it and let you know
where and when.'
'I'll be there,' Featherstone replied without enthusiasm. 'We'll speak soon.'
Hellier listened to Sebastian Gibran drone on from the other side of an
obscenely wide oak desk, flanked by two old men rarely seen in the office. He
assumed they were two of the owners of Butler and Mason, about whom little was
known, even amongst the employees. They had olive skin and spoke only passable
English. Hellier thought they looked old and weak.
'It's important for you to understand, James,' Gibran urged, 'that we fully
support you in what must be a very difficult time for you and your family, and
I speak for the entire firm when I say none of us believe these ridiculous
allegations.'
Hellier was almost caught daydreaming. He realized just in time he was expected
to answer. 'Yes, of course, and thank you for your support. It really means a
lot to my family and me.' He sounded suitably genuine.
'James,' Gibran insisted, 'you have been one of our most valuable employees
since you joined us. You needn't thank us for supporting you now.'
Sanctimonious bastard. One of their most valuable employees - I've made these
fuckers millions. And they never cared how the money was earned either, so long
as it kept rolling in. Support me during these difficult times. What fucking
choice do you fools have? You need me a hell of a lot more than I need you.
'Well, all the same, I'm very much indebted to you. To you all,' Hellier lied.
'I feel very much part of the family here and would hate for that to change.'
'So would I,' said Gibran, although his tone and expression were less than
reassuring. 'But incidents such as your late arrival at what is possibly the
most important annual event in our diary will not go unnoticed. I'm sure you
understand.'
'I understand,' Hellier lied. 'And I apologize for being late, unreservedly.
Once this whole mess with the police is cleared up, I'll be able once again to
give a hundred per cent to this firm.'
'Good,' said Gibran. 'Because not only are you important to the company, you're
important to me personally, James, as a valued friend.'
Sally had been at the Public Records Office all morning. She was bored and
frustrated. The clerk helping her search for records relating to Stefan
Korsakov seemed bored too. He was no more than twenty-five and still had traces
of acne. He wasn't impressed with Sally's credentials. Sally didn't know his
name. He hadn't told her.
These days the bulk of the records were on computer, with only the clerk having
access to the system. That was fine with Sally, so long as she didn't have to
wait much longer amongst the millions of old paper records stacked from floor
to ceiling in the dark, cavernous building.
She heard footsteps approaching along the corridors of shelving and she was
relieved to see the clerk return holding a piece of paper, but he wasn't
smiling.
'I've found the person you're interested in. Stefan Korsakov, born in
Twickenham, Middlesex, on the twelfth of November 1971.' He put the paper on a
desk and smoothed it out for Sally to see. 'Stefan Korsakov's birth
certificate,' he announced. 'This is the person you're interested in?'
'Yes,' Sally answered. 'I was beginning to think I'd imagined him.'
'Excuse me?' the clerk asked.
'Never mind. Don't worry about me.'
'Really.' The clerk sounded bored again.
'Is he still alive?' She looked up at the clerk. 'If he's dead, I need to see
his death certificate.'
'Do you know where he might have died?'
'Not a clue,' Sally answered honestly. 'Does that help?'
'I take it you want me to do a national search?'
'Sorry. Yes.' Sally sensed the clerk's annoyance rising.
'That'll take days. Maybe weeks. I'll have to send out a circular to the other
offices around the country. All I can do is wait for them to get back to me.'
'Fine.' Sally pulled a business card from her handbag and gave it to him.
'Here's my card. My mobile number is on there. Call me as soon as you know. Any
time. Day or night.'
'Will there be anything else?'
'No.' The word was barely out before Sally changed her mind. 'Actually, you
know what, while I'm here there is one more thing I'd like you to check for.'
'Such as?'
'I'd like you to find birth and death certificates, if they exist, for this
man.' She wrote a name and date of birth on some paper and handed it to the
clerk.
He read the name. 'James Hellier. It'll be done,' he said. 'But--'
Sally finished for him. 'It'll take time. Yes, I know.'
Hellier made his excuses and left the office shortly after his meeting with
Gibran. No one had questioned why or where he was going. He knew no one would.
The police still had his address book. They hadn't let him take a photocopy of
it either. His solicitor was working on recovering it, or at least getting a
copy. No matter. If DI Corrigan wanted to be a tough fucker, then that was
fine. He had contingency plans.
He had no sense of being watched this morning. Strange. Maybe his instincts
were jaded. He was tired. Yesterday had been a long day, even for him. Maybe
Corrigan had accepted what he said in interview as the truth, but he doubted
it. So where were they, dug in deep or simply not there?
He walked along Knightsbridge, past Harvey Nichols towards Harrods, turning
left into Sloane Street, walking fast towards the south. Suddenly he ran across
the road dodging cars driven by irate drivers. A black-cab driver blasted his
horn and shouted an obscenity in a thick East End accent.
He ran at a fast jog along Pont Street, like a businessman late for a meeting,
hardly noticed by the people he ran past. He turned right into Hans Place and
jogged around the square.
On the corner with Lennox Gardens was a small delicatessen. Hellier went in and
asked for a quarter kilo of Tuscan salami; while being served, he examined the
other two customers in the shop. He could tell instantly they weren't police.
As the shopkeeper wrapped the meat, he suddenly ran from the shop at full
speed. The shopkeeper shouted after him, but Hellier didn't stop. After about a
hundred and fifty metres he slowed and walked into the middle of the street,
standing on the white lines, the traffic sweeping either side of him. He
studied the entire area around him, each pedestrian, every car and motorbike,
but nobody caught his eye uncomfortably. Nobody checked themselves as they
walked. No car swerved away into a side street.
He wasn't being followed, he was convinced of it. And even if they had been
following him, he'd lost them. They'd underestimated him, assumed he wasn't
aware of surveillance and counter-surveillance, and now they'd paid the price.
But he knew next time they would be more aware. More difficult to shake off.
Sean studied Dr Canning's post-mortem report. Some detectives found it easier
to look at photographs rather than spend time at the scene. He realized the
value of having everything logged photographically, but preferred to be
confronted with the real thing than these cold, cruel pictures. At the scenes
he felt something for the victims: sorrow and regret - sadness. But when he
studied the photographs they felt almost more real than the scenes themselves -
the stark coldness of what they depicted and the harshness of the colours
somehow even more unnerving than the actual scenes.
The report was excellent, as usual. Dr Canning had missed nothing. Every
injury, old and new, had been observed, examined and described. Sean was
totally engrossed. Finally he noticed DC Zukov loitering at his door.
'What is it, Paulo?' he asked.
'This little lot just arrived in dispatch for you, guv.' He held up several
dozen paper files.
'Stick them down here.' DC Zukov dropped them on to Sean's desk and retreated.
They were the files from General Registry he'd asked for. Each held details of
a violent death. These weren't like the files Sally had studied at Method Index
that concentrated on unique and uncommon crimes. These were case files of daily
horrors. Young men stabbed to death outside pubs. Children tortured to death by
their own parents. Prostitutes beaten to death by their pimps. The cases in
front of him all involved excessive use of violence, but would they contain
some detail that would leap out at him? Would one reek of the killer he hunted?
Of Hellier?
He was about to begin studying the first of many when Donnelly burst in. 'Bad
news, guv'nor. Hellier's lost the surveillance.'
'What?' Sean couldn't believe what he was being told.
'Sorry, boss.'
'Tell them to get back and cover his office and home. He'll turn up eventually,
and they can pick him up again.'
'Not that simple, I'm afraid,' Donnelly said wearily. 'All the surveillance
teams have been pulled away on an anti-terrorist op. Sign of the times, eh?'
'Give me some good news, Dave. What about the lab? Any news?'
'All samples taken from the victim and his flat have been matched to people who
admit to having sexual relations with him, but the lab found no blood on any of
those individuals or their clothes. Only Hellier is anything like a genuine
suspect. In short, the lab can't help us. They still haven't processed
Hellier's clothes, but I won't be holding my breath.'
'Fingerprints?' Sean asked.
'Spoke with them this morning. There's three sets of prints they can't match to
anyone. All the others came back to the same people who'd left body samples
there.'
'What about these three unmatched sets? Do they come back to anyone with
convictions?'
'No. They're no good to us unless we come up with other suspects we can match
them to.'
'Bollocks. Okay, we cover Hellier ourselves. Who have we got that's
surveillance trained?'
'I am,' Donnelly said. 'And I think a couple of the DCs are: Jim, and maybe
Frank.'
'Good,' Sean said, in spite of the fact it was anything but. 'We'll split into
two teams and do a twelve-hour shift each. Dave, you lead Team One and get Jim
and Frank to run the other.'
'Hold on a minute, guv'nor,' Donnelly argued. 'We're talking about two teams of
what, maybe five people. Almost none of whom are surveillance trained. We'd be
wasting our fucking time - and I haven't even mentioned the fact he's seen more
than half the team when he got arrested.'
'That's why I won't be with you,' Sean said. 'I'm gambling he was concentrating
on me when he was arrested. You need to exercise special care too. I doubt he's
forgotten what you look like. No offence.'
'None taken,' Donnelly replied. 'But this is still little better than hopeless.'
'We've got no choice.' Sean sounded desperate. He was. 'So let's get on with
it. Take whatever cars and radios you need. Apologize to the troops for me.
I'll speak to them myself later.'
'Fine,' Donnelly said.
Sean could hear the dissatisfaction in the DS's voice. He understood it, even
if there was nothing he could do to quell it. They had to try something. What
else could he do?
Hellier arrived at the antiques shop in the Cromwell Road at about 1 p.m. The
shopkeeper recognized him immediately.
'Mr Saunders. It's been a while,' he greeted Hellier. 'And how has life been
treating you lately, sir?'
'Fine,' Hellier said without smiling. 'I need to make a collection. I trust
it's safe.'
'Of course, sir.'
The shopkeeper disappeared into the back.
Hellier wandered slowly around the empty shop. He ran his trailing hand across
the fine wooden furniture. He stopped to lift and examine several china pieces.
Their value alone would have stopped most people from touching them. Hellier
handled them as if they were Tupperware. He breathed in the scent of the shop.
Leather, wood, riches and age. He deserved it all.
The shopkeeper reappeared carrying a metal safety box. 'Do you confirm that
your property is kept in box number twelve, Mr Saunders?'
'I do.'
'Excellent.' Pulling a key from his waistcoat pocket, he unlocked the padlock
then stood back for Hellier to open the box's lid.
Hellier removed a small white envelope and another larger one. He quickly
checked the contents, which included a passport for the Republic of Ireland.
Satisfied, he slipped both envelopes into his pocket and closed the lid.
'Do I owe you anything?' he asked.
'No. Your account is still very much in credit, Mr Saunders.'
Regardless, Hellier pulled five hundred pounds in new fifty-pound notes from
his wallet. He placed them on the desk next to the till. 'That's to make sure
it stays that way.'
The shopkeeper licked his lips. It was all he could do not to grab at the cash.
'Will you be returning the property today, sir?'
Hellier was already heading for the door. He answered without looking back.
'Maybe. Who knows?'
With that he was gone.
The shopkeeper liked the money, but he hoped it would be the last time he saw
Mr Saunders. He was scared of Mr Saunders - in fact, he was scared of lots of
the people he kept illicit safety deposits for. But Mr Saunders scared him the
most.
Sally drove back towards Peckham alone. It had been a long and uninteresting
morning at the Records Office. Truthfully, she was beginning to feel a little
left out of the main investigation and now she also had to put up with the
frustration of waiting days for the results of her searches [?] all of which
meant she had yet to eliminate Korsakov. She knew Sean wouldn't be best pleased.
Her mobile began to ring and jump around on the passenger seat. In defiance of
the law, she answered it while driving. 'Sally Jones speaking.'
'DS Jones, this is IDO Collins from fingerprints. You sent a request up
yesterday, asking for a set of conviction prints for Stefan Korsakov to be
compared with prints found at the Graydon murder scene.'
'That's correct,' she confirmed, excitement growing in her stomach.
'I'm afraid that's not going to be possible,' Collins told her.
'What? Why not?'
'Because we don't have a set of fingerprints for anyone by that name.'
'You must have,' Sally insisted. 'He has a criminal conviction [?] his prints
were taken and submitted.'
'I don't know what to tell you,' Collins replied. 'I've searched the system and
they're not here.'
The possibilities spun around Sally's mind. Korsakov was rapidly becoming the
invisible man. First his charging photographs and now his fingerprints. Sally
didn't like what she was finding. She didn't like it at all. She remembered
what Jarratt had said: maybe Korsakov was a ghost.
IDO Collins broke her thoughts. 'Are you still there, DS Jones?'
'Yes,' she answered. 'I'm still here. In fact, you know what? I think I'd
better come see you.'
Hellier hailed a black cab and directed the driver to take him to the Barclays
Bank in Great Portland Street, around the corner from Oxford Circus. Tourists
and shoppers jammed the pavements. Red buses and cabs jammed the roads. It was
an unholy mess. Diesel fumes mixed with the smell of frying onions and cheap
meat. The heat of the day kept the air heavy.
The cab drew up directly outside the bank. Hellier was out and paying before
the driver knew it. He dropped a twenty-pound note through the driver's window
and walked away without speaking.
He went to a keen-looking female cashier in her early twenties. She would want
to do everything by the book. So did he. He handed her the larger envelope he'd
taken from the antiques shop. It was documentation of his ownership of a
safe-deposit box held in the bank's vault. 'I would like access to my deposit
box, please,' he told her.
'Of course,' she agreed. 'Can I ask if you have any identification with you,
sir?' She sounded like every other bank clerk in the world.
He smiled and pulled out a passport for the Republic of Ireland. 'Will this be
okay?'
She checked the name and photograph in the passport, smiled and handed it back
to him. 'That'll be fine, Mr McGrath. If you'd like to take a seat in
consultation room number two, I'll fetch the deposit box.'
Within a few minutes the clerk came to Hellier's room and placed the
stainless-steel box on the table. 'I'll leave you alone now, sir. Just let me
know when you've finished.' She turned on her heel and left the room, shutting
the door with a reassuring thud.
Hellier pulled the smaller envelope from his jacket pocket, opened the flap and
shook the contents out on to the table [?] a silver key. He couldn't help but
look around him as he put the key into the lock. It was stiff, causing him to
feel a stab of panic as he jiggled it, eventually turning the lock and opening
the box. Slowly he lifted the lid and peered inside. The box was as he had left
it. He ignored the rolls of US dollars and pushed the loose diamonds out of the
way, flicking a five-carat solitaire to one side as if it was a dead insect,
until he found what he was looking for [?] a scrap of ageing paper. He lifted
it closer to the light and examined it, relieved to see the number was still
visible after all this time. He smiled, and spent the next ten minutes
committing the number to memory. He ignored the first three digits - the outer
London dialling code - but he repeated the remainder of the number over and
over until he was sure he would never forget it.
'Nine-nine-one-three. Two-zero-seven-four. Nine-nine-one-three.
Two-zero-seven-four.'
Sean read through the files from General Registry. He'd found it difficult to
concentrate at first, the logistical problems of the investigation severely
hindering his free thinking, but as the office grew quieter he was able to lose
himself in the files.
He'd already rejected several. They were all extremely violent crimes that
remained unsolved, but they just didn't feel right. Too many missing elements.
He picked up the next file and flipped open the cover. The first thing he saw
was a crime-scene photograph. He winced at the sight of a young girl, no more
than sixteen, lying on a cold stone floor, her dead hands clutching her throat.
He could see she was lying in a huge pool of her own blood and guessed her
throat had been cut.
He leaned into the file. The photographs spoke to him. The victim spoke to him.
His nostrils flared. This one, he thought to himself. This one. He flicked past
the photographs and began to read.
The victim was a young runaway. Came to London from Newcastle. Parents reported
her missing several days before her body was found. Neither parent considered
as a suspect. No boyfriend involved. No pimp under suspicion. Her name, Heather
Freeman. Body recovered from an unused building on waste ground in Dagenham. No
witnesses traced.
Sean rifled through the papers to the forensic report. It was ominously short.
No fingerprints, no DNA, no blood other than the victim's. The suspect had left
no trace of himself other than one thing: footprints in the dust inside the
scene. They were striking only because of their lack of uniqueness. A
plain-soled man's shoe, size nine or ten, apparently very new with minimal
scarring.
'Jesus Christ,' he whispered.
Sean checked the date of the murder. It predated Daniel Graydon's death by more
than two weeks. 'You have killed before, you had to have, but how many times?'
His head began to thump. He searched for the name of the investigating officer
and found it: DI Ross Brown, based on the Murder Investigation Team at Old
Ilford police station. He bundled together his belongings and, taking the file
with him, headed for the exit. He'd phone DI Brown once he was on his way.
Hellier walked along Great Titchfield Street, still in the heart of London's
West End shopping area, although it was a lot quieter. He soon found a phone
booth and pumped three pound coins into the slot. He heard the dialling tone
and punched the number keypad. Zero-two-zero. Nine-nine-one-three.
Two-zero-seven-four.
The dialling tone changed to a ringing one. He waited only two cycles before it
was answered. The person on the other end had clearly been expecting a call.
Hellier spoke.
'Hello, old friend,' he said mockingly. 'We have much to discuss.'
'I've been waiting for you to call,' the voice answered. 'I expected it sooner.'
'Your friends took my contact book,' Hellier told him, 'and you're not listed
in the phone book or with Directory Enquiries. Makes you a difficult person to
find.'
'The police have taken a book off you with my number in it?' The voice sounded
strained. 'How the hell did you let that happen?'
'Calm down.' Hellier was in control. 'All the numbers in the book were coded.
No one will know it's yours.'
'They'd better not,' the voice said. 'So if they've got the book, how did you
find my number again?'
'You gave it to me, don't you remember? When you first came begging to me. Cap
in hand. You wrote it on a piece of paper. I kept it. Thought it might come in
useful one day.'
'You need to get rid of it. Now,' the voice demanded.
Hellier wished he and the voice were face to face. He'd make him suffer for his
insolence. 'Listen, fucker,' he shouted into the phone. A passer-by glanced at
him, but quickly looked away when he saw Hellier's eyes. 'You don't tell me
what to do. You never fucking tell me what to do. Do-You-Understand-Me?'
There was silence. Neither man spoke. It gave Hellier a few seconds to regain
his composure. He pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and dabbed his
shining brow. The voice broke the silence.
'What do you want me to do?'
'Get Corrigan to call his dogs off,' Hellier replied.
'I don't think I can do that. If I could think of any way ... But I swear I
don't have that sort of pull.' The voice was almost pleading.
'You're a damn fool,' Hellier snapped. 'Just wait for me to call you. I'll
think of something.' He hung up.
Feeling better now, he rolled his head and massaged the back of his neck. He
glanced at his watch. Time was passing. He needed to get back to work.
Sally sat in a side office at the Fingerprint Branch at New Scotland Yard. A
tall slim man in his mid-fifties entered the room nervously. Sally stood and
offered her hand. 'Thanks for seeing me so quickly.'
'No problem at all,' said IDO Collins. 'How can I help?'
Sally sucked in a lungful of air and began to explain herself. 'This is a
sensitive matter, you understand?'
'Of course,' Collins reassured her.
'On the phone you said you couldn't find Korsakov's fingerprints. So what I
need to find out is how the fingerprints of a convicted criminal could go
missing.'
Collins smiled and shook his head. 'Not possible. You can't remove files from
the computer database.'
'Before that,' Sally said. 'Assume they went missing from the old filing
system. Possible?'
'Well, I suppose so.' Collins began to chew the side of his thumb. 'But they
could only go missing for a period of time.'
'Meaning?'
'Well, on the old system, officers and other agencies would sometimes ask to
look at sets of prints. Mostly they would view them here at the Yard, but
occasionally they would have to take them away. For example to compare them
with a person the Immigration Service had doubts about, or to compare them with
a prison inmate if the Prison Service suspected funny business. Somebody trying
to serve a sentence on behalf of somebody else. It does happen, you know.
Usually for money, sometimes out of fear.'
'Or to get away from the wife and kids?' Sally half-joked.
'Yes. Probably. I wouldn't know.' Collins laughed a little. He still sounded
nervous. 'Anyway. Prints might be taken away, but if they weren't returned
quickly, within a few days, we'd chase after them. We'd always get them back.
Always. We simply wouldn't stop pestering until they were returned. They're too
important to allow them to disappear.'
'Then perhaps you can explain how this set vanished?' Sally slid a file across
the desk. 'Stefan Korsakov. Convicted of fraud in 1996. He definitely had
prints taken when he was charged. No mistake. Prints that you're telling me
have since disappeared.'
Collins looked shocked, but recovered quickly and smiled. 'A clerical mistake.
Give me a minute and I'll search for them myself.'
She knew it made sense to double check. 'If it'll make you feel better, then
it'll make me feel better. I'll be in the canteen. Give me a shout when you're
finished.'
DI Ross Brown waited at the old murder scene for Sean to arrive, the police
cordon tape flapping loosely in the mild breeze, tatty and spoilt now.
It was getting late, but he didn't mind waiting. His investigation had not been
going well [?] stranger attacks of this type were extremely difficult to solve
quickly. Unless you were out to make a name for yourself, they were every
detective's worst nightmare. And with only three years' service remaining, DI
Ross Brown wasn't out to make a name for himself. If he thought Sean could help
his case, he'd wait all night.
Sean found his way to Hornchurch Marshes and drove through the unmanned
entrance to the wasteground. A single road wound its way over the desolate and
oppressive land to a small outbuilding. Sean could see a tall, well-built man
standing outside. He parked next to DI Brown's car and climbed out. Brown was
already moving towards him, his hand outstretched.
'Sean Corrigan. We spoke on the phone.'
Ross Brown wrapped a big hand around Sean's. His grip was surprisingly gentle.
'Good of you to come all this way out east,' he said.
'I just hope I'm not wasting your time,' Sean answered.
DI Brown pointed to the outbuilding. 'She died in there. She was fifteen years
old.' He looked sad. 'She'd run away from home. The usual story. Mum and Dad
split up, Mum gets a new man, kid won't accept him and ends up running away to
London [?] straight into the hands of some sick bastard.
'It's not easy to get the homeless to talk,' he continued, 'to get their trust.
But a couple of her friends have provided us with details of her last movements.
'We're pretty certain she was abducted in the King's Cross area on the same
night she was killed, about two weeks ago, give or take. We canvassed the area,
but no one witnessed the abduction [?] our man is apparently extremely cautious
and fast.
'We tried to get the media interested, but we only got minimal coverage. It's
difficult to compete with suicide bombers, and they like victims to be the
nice, top-of-the-class type, not teenage runaways.
'The killer drove her to this waste ground. He took her into this abandoned
building, stripped her, and then he cut her throat. One large laceration that
almost cut the poor little cow's head off.'
Sean could see Brown was disturbed. No doubt the man had teenage daughters of
his own. The nearby giant car plant dominated the horizon. It all added to the
feeling of dread in this place. 'Poor little cow,' Brown repeated. 'What the
hell must she have been thinking? All alone. Made to strip. There were no signs
of sexual abuse, but we can't be sure what he did or didn't make her do.
Fucking animal.'
'The murder of Daniel Graydon occurred six days ago,' Sean said without
prompting. 'His head was caved in with a heavy blunt instrument, not recovered.
He was also stabbed repeatedly with an ice pick or similar, not recovered
either. He was killed in his own flat in the early hours. No sign of forced
entry. He was a homosexual and a prostitute.'
Brown frowned. He couldn't see much of a connection to his investigation, if
any. 'Doesn't sound like my man. Different type of victim, murder location,
weapon used. I'm sorry, Sean. I don't see any similarities here.'
'No,' Sean said, holding up a hand. 'That's not where the similarity lies.' He
began to walk to the outbuilding. DI Brown followed him.
'What then?' Brown asked.
'The only usable evidence from our scene were some footprints in the hallway
carpet. They were made by a man wearing a pair of plain-soled shoes with
plastic bags over them. The forensic report said you recovered footprints.'
'Yes,' Brown said. 'Inside the outbuilding.'
'And no other forensic evidence?' Sean asked.
'Is that why you're here?' DI Brown asked. 'Because neither of us have any
forensic evidence, other than a useless shoeprint?' Sean's silence answered the
question. 'Then I guess we're both in the shit,' Brown continued, 'because if
you're right and these murders are connected, then this is a really bad bastard
we're after here and he's absolutely not going to stop until someone stops him.'
Sean's phone interrupted him before he could reply. It was Donnelly. 'Dave?'
'Guv'nor, surveillance is in place at Butler and Mason, and guess who's back?'
'He's at work?'
'No mistake. I've seen him myself through the window. He's not hiding.'
'Okay. Stay on him. I'll call you later.' He hung up.
What the hell are you up to now? And where have you been that you didn't want
us to see?
'Problem?' Brown asked.
'No,' Sean answered. 'Nothing that can't wait.'
Sally saw Collins enter the canteen and gave a little wave to attract his
attention. He sat opposite her, carefully placing an old index book on the
table.
'From a time before computers,' he told her. 'I've double checked both the
computer system and searched manually, as well as checking the old records on
microfiche. We have nothing under the name of Korsakov.'
'Which means?' Sally asked.
'Well, normally I would have said that you were mistaken. That Korsakov's
prints could never have been submitted.'
'But ...?'
'But I have this.' He patted the index book. 'This is a record of all
fingerprints that are removed from Fingerprint Branch. We still use it as a
back-up for our new computer records, and this way we actually get the
signature of the removing party, which helps ensure their safe return. This
volume goes back to ninety-nine.'
Collins went to the page showing all the fingerprints of people whose surnames
began with the letter K that were removed that year. It was a comparatively
short list. Fingerprints were rarely removed.
'Here,' he pointed. 'On the fourteenth of May 1999, fingerprints belonging to
one Stefan Korsakov were removed by a DC Graham Wright, from the CID at
Richmond.'
'So they were here?' Sally asked.
'They must have been.'
'But this DC Wright never returned them?'
'That's the bit I don't understand,' said Collins, frowning. 'They were
returned. Two days later by the same detective, along with the microfiche of
the prints, which he'd also booked out.'
'Then where are they?'
'I have no idea,' Collins admitted.
Sally paused for a few seconds. 'Could someone have simply walked in here and
taken the prints and microfiche?'
'I seriously doubt it. The office is always manned and all prints and fiches
are locked away. Only someone who worked in the Fingerprint Branch would have
that level of access.'
Why the hell would someone from Fingerprints want to make Korsakov's records
disappear? Had he corrupted someone there? Paid them for a little dirty work?
But in May of 1999 he was still in prison, so how could he possibly have known
whom to approach? No, Sally decided. Something else.
'When fingerprints are returned, are they checked?' she asked. 'Before being
accepted.'
'A quick visual check, no more,' Collins told her.
'And the microfiche?'
'No. That wouldn't have been standard practice. So long as the fingerprints
were in good order, that would have been that.'
Sean and Brown moved into the outbuilding. There was still light outside, but
inside it was dim and damp. Sean could clearly see the last remains of that
horrific night: a large circular bloodstain in the middle of the floor. It was
rusty brown now. The inexperienced eye would have thought it nothing. He
sometimes wished his eyes could be so innocent.
The arterial spray marks went from Sean's left to right across the room. They'd
almost hit the wall over twelve feet away. The detectives moved around slowly
in the gloom. The scene had long since been examined and any evidence taken
away, but Sean studied it closely nonetheless. He knew nothing would have been
missed, but that wasn't why he was there. He was seeing that night through the
victim's eyes. Through the killer's eyes.
Brown broke the silence. 'We know she was on her knees when he cut her,' he
said solemnly, 'from the distance her blood travelled and the body's final
resting position. He pulled her head back and then slit her throat.' Brown
obviously didn't enjoy recounting their findings. 'You really think these
murders could be linked?'
Sean didn't answer. He knelt down. This was how Heather last saw the world. 'We
have a suspect,' he announced suddenly.
'A suspect?' Brown asked.
'Yeah,' Sean said. He could feel the clouds lifting from his mind. Could see
things he'd never considered before. Standing on the spot where Heather Freeman
had died fired his mind, his imagination, the dark side he buried so deep.
'James Hellier,' Sean continued. 'Up until this point he's been hiding from us.
Hiding behind a mask of respectability. A wife and children. A career. But he's
out now. He's showing himself to us.
'The gender of the victims doesn't matter to him. Male, female - makes no
difference. It's not a matter of sex with Hellier. It's about power. About
victimization. The gender is coincidental. Two young and vulnerable victims.
Easy targets.'
'Why's he not bothered about leaving his footprints,' Brown asked, 'if he's so
damn careful where everything else is concerned?'
'No.' Sean spoke softly. 'He's extremely concerned about footprints. He's
probably experimented with dozens of methods, maybe even hundreds, but each
time he comes up with the same conclusion. No matter what he tries, no matter
what shoes he wears, what surface he walks on, he nearly always leaves some
type of print. Even if it's the slightest impression in a carpet, like in
Daniel Graydon's flat.
'He knows he'll almost certainly leave prints at his scenes, so he gives up
trying not to. Instead he masks them as best he can. He wears bland shoes,
probably brand-new. He changes the size of the shoes he wears. He can't change
it too much, but he tries.'
'Why doesn't he just commit his crimes on solid surfaces?' Brown asked. 'That
way he wouldn't leave an impression.'
Sean fired the answer back: 'Too restrictive. He would have considered it, but
discounted it. He needs to spend time with them. In their own homes or
somewhere like this. Spending time with them is more important to him than
leaving a shoeprint. For him, the risk is worth it. And what's he leaving us?
Virtually unidentifiable, totally un-unique shoe marks. He'll take that chance.
'He knows how we link murder scenes,' Sean continued. 'We look for exact
matches. Unique items. Same weapon. Same method. Same type of victim. Not
"almosts". So he picks victims of different genders. Kills them in different
ways and in different types of locations. Your victim he abducts, ours he
already knew. He keeps it mixed up.'
Sean kept talking. 'Most repeat killers work to a pattern. To leave their
calling card. When they settle on a method that works for them, they stick with
it. Many only kill in their own neighbourhood, where everything is familiar,
where they feel safe. When they attempt to disguise their work, then you know
you're dealing with a killer whose primary instinct is not to get caught.'
'And your suspect fits this profile?' Brown asked.
'He paid for violent sex - been doing so for years, no doubt. That probably
kept his urges, his impulses suppressed for a while, but ultimately it wasn't
enough. He would have seen your victim. Fantasized about her. It's more than he
can bear. He plans it thoroughly. He's extremely careful. He finds the planning
thrilling, so he takes his time. Finally he grabs her. He uses a big car, or
better still a van. He probably steals one or maybe rents one.
'He brings her out here. He'd have been here, no more than a day or so
previously. He wants his intelligence to be up to date. He brings her inside
...' Sean broke off and turned to Brown. 'How much did she weigh?'
Brown stuttered, taken aback at the unexpected question. 'I don't know,' he
said with a shrug.
'Was she big? Small?' Sean pressed him.
'She was small,' Brown answered. 'I went to the autopsy. She was tiny.'
'Then he carried her in,' Sean said. 'It was quicker and quieter than dragging
her.' He snapped another question at Brown: 'Was she tied or taped in any way?'
'We believe she was taped,' Brown replied. 'There were traces of adhesive
across her mouth, ankles, wrists and around her knees. The adhesive matches a
common brand of masking tape. Nothing rare.'
'Once inside, he dumps her on the ground,' Sean continued. 'He wants her
untied, but he's worried she'll fight or scream. So how does he stop that
happening?' He looked at Brown.
'He would have threatened her,' Brown answered.
'Absolutely. He would have threatened her,' Sean repeated. 'He would have
almost certainly shown her the knife that he eventually used to kill her. Any
defensive marks on the girl?'
'No.'
'Then he told her he wasn't going to hurt her and she believed him. She did as
she was told. If she'd thought he intended to kill her, she would have fought
him or tried to run. She agrees to do what he tells her, so he removes the tape
from her mouth and limbs ... But why is that important to him? She wasn't
raped, so he could have left the tape around her ankles and knees. Why risk
taking the tape away?'
Sean's vivid narration stalled, as if someone had drawn a curtain across the
window he'd been looking through. He moved around the room, staring at the
floor. He moved like an animal locked in a cage. It was minutes before he spoke
again.
'He had to remove the tape because it was spoiling it for him. It was necessary
when she was first abducted, but now it was spoiling his imagery. He'd imagined
her a certain way for so long, imagined her dying a certain way, that he
couldn't settle for less. He needed to make life imitate his fantasy. So he
makes her take her clothes off. All of them. He doesn't even let her keep her
underwear or a T-shirt on. He's totally without mercy. Totally without
compassion for her - but this is all for our benefit. He wants us to think
there's a sexual motivation for the killing, but there isn't. He enjoyed the
power he held over her, of course - and making her undress was a strong show of
his power. But it was purely for us. To stop us linking him to other murders.'
He paused for a few seconds, allowing his imagination to again become the
killer's memory. 'He makes her kneel down and tells her to perform oral sex on
him, but he was never going to allow that to happen, never going to let her get
that near to him. He was never going to risk leaving forensic evidence. So he
grabs her by the scruff of the neck and cuts her once across the throat. He's
strong and fast. The knife is very sharp; again, probably brand-new. One hit is
all it takes. What time was she killed?'
'Between eleven p.m. and three a.m. is the best we can say.'
'It would have been dark then,' Sean pointed out. He looked around the building
for lighting. There was none. The room would have been pitch black. 'He had to
have light to see.'
'Maybe he used a torch?' Brown said.
'No,' Sean replied. 'He needed both hands free, and the light from a torch
wouldn't be right for what he wanted.'
'What did he want?' Brown asked.
'He wanted to see her. He needed to see her die.' Sean looked out of the window
and saw his own car pointing towards the building. The headlight mountings
glinted in the low evening sunlight.
'He used his car headlights,' Sean said. 'He would have checked that ahead of
time too. He went there on the night of the murder already knowing car
headlights would give him all the light he needed.
'And when she was dead, he stayed with her. He'd been dreaming about this for
too long to just walk away from her now she was dead. He stood here and watched
her bleed to death. Watched until her blood stopped running.
'You didn't find any signs the body was moved or mutilated after she'd died,
did you?' Sean told rather than asked Brown.
'No,' he answered. 'She died where she fell and wasn't touched.'
'He didn't want to spoil the perfect picture he'd created. All he wanted was to
stand and watch her.' Sean was silent for a while, troubled by the question
forming in his mind. 'Did you search this wasteland for used condoms?'
'Not specifically for condoms, as far as I know, and I don't recall seeing any
listed on the lab submissions form. Why d'you ask?'
'Because I think he would have masturbated while he watched her die, but he
wouldn't risk leaving his DNA, so he would have used a condom. Maybe he threw
it away beyond where he thought we would search.' Sean looked Brown square in
the eyes.
'Jesus! Where did you get that from?' Brown asked.
Sean moved on without answering. 'Then he left her. He didn't cover her, not
even partially. It would have been a sign of guilt. Remorse. He has no
psychological need to try and make amends for his crimes. He felt nothing. He
walked away feeling nothing more than a sense of relief, maybe even what for
him amounts to happiness.'
'But what's his motivation?' Brown asked. 'Is it sexual? Is this the only way
he can get a hard-on?'
'Not sexual,' Sean answered. 'Power. With this one, motivation is all about
power.'
'But there's so many sexual overtones to his crimes. Making her strip, making
her go on her knees in front of him. You said it yourself: he probably
masturbated at the scene.'
'Because the power excites him, makes him feel alive. The sexual acts are
merely symptoms, a way he can release the power he feels building up inside
him.'
Brown seemed both impressed and unnerved by Sean's analysis. 'Done a few of
these types before?' he asked.
'Some,' Sean replied, managing a slight smile. 'I do a lot of research.'
'If I can make an observation of my own ...' Brown asked.
'Go on.'
'If my killer, our killer, is as clever as you say, as good at disguising his
methods as you believe he is, then how do we know he hasn't killed other
people? How will we ever know?'
'Truth is,' Sean admitted, 'unless he decides to tell us about them, we
probably never will.'
They were back. Hellier could feel them before he saw them. Only these were
clumsier than the last. Why would Corrigan put amateurs on him? Was the DI so
arrogant that he thought these second-raters would be good enough to follow him?
My enemy's mistakes are my greatest gains.
Hellier wasn't in his own office. He had been earlier, long enough to let the
surveillance see him, but now, unseen, he used the office of another junior
partner. He'd let it be known he would be working late, to make up for his
earlier absence. Truth was, he needed to access certain bank accounts held
across the globe. He didn't want to use the computer in his own office. The
police had been in there. They could have somehow bugged his computer. They
could be monitoring his online activities. He doubted they were smart enough,
but why take the risk?
He was the only person left in the offices. Tonight it was essential to be
alone and to move fast. The police had seized many of his bank details and they
knew where most of his money was, but not all of it.
They would be moving to block his accounts, but that would require court orders
and the banks would take time to comply with the orders' instructions. That
would burn up a few days, and by then it would all be a wasted exercise.
Hellier was skilled on the computer. Able to cover his electronic tracks
extremely well. He called up a website on the Internet. It was one he'd set up
himself two years ago, but it was no more than an illusion, a front, just like
a restaurant or bar could be, and like them there was a back door. But you had
to know how to find it. Hellier knew. Of course he did. The illusion was his
design.
The site was entitled Banks and the small investor. There was a hidden command
icon on the screen. Hellier carefully placed the cursor on the tail of the
site's symbol, a prancing horse similar to the Ferrari emblem. Pin the tail on
the donkey and win a prize. He smiled again, pleased with his private joke.
He clicked the cursor twice and waited a second. A type box suddenly appeared
in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen, flashing, demanding a password.
Hellier typed: fuck them all.
When Sean arrived back at his Peckham office he found it deserted except for
Sally. Ignoring the No Smoking signs, she was puffing heavily on a cigarette.
She looked up from her paperwork and was relieved to see it was Sean. She held
the cigarette up. 'Do you mind?'
'No,' Sean answered. 'What are you doing here this late?'
'Trying to work a few things out.'
'Such as?'
'Such as how did Korsakov's fingerprints manage to get up and walk out of
Scotland Yard all on their own?'
Sean didn't understand and he wasn't of a mind to ask for explanations. His
thoughts were still with Heather Freeman.
'And why are you back here so late?' Sally asked.
'I've been out east.'
'Why?' Sally sounded almost suspicious.
Sean hesitated before answering. 'I believe I've identified another murder
committed by our man.'
'What?' The surprise made Sally stand involuntarily. 'Are you sure?'
'As sure as I can be.'
'Another gay man?'
'No. A girl. A teenage runaway. He abducted her from King's Cross and took her
out to some waste ground in Dagenham. He made her strip before cutting her
throat.'
'I don't see a connection,' Sally confessed. 'Did Hellier also know her?'
'I doubt it. But he watched her before killing her. Once he'd selected her, he
watched her. Learned her movements. Planned everything very carefully. Then he
took her.'
'So she was a stranger, yet Daniel Graydon was someone he knew.'
'I'm not so sure any more.'
'Not so sure of what?'
'That he knew Graydon - or at least, not as well as he'd have us believe.'
'I really don't understand,' Sally admitted.
'I think he picked Graydon at random. A week or so before he killed him, he
went to the nightclub and he selected him. He paid to have sex with him so that
on the night he killed him he could approach Graydon without spooking him. Then
they went back to the flat and he killed him, just like he was always going to
do.'
'Why didn't he kill him the same night he first met him?'
'Because he needed to kill him in his own flat. It was how he'd seen it -
fantasized about it. But for that to happen he needed Graydon's trust, he
needed him to feel comfortable, so he approached him inside the club,
surrounded by witnesses and people who knew the victim. If he'd killed him the
same night, it would have been too easy for us to work out what must have
happened: stranger arrives in gay nightclub and leaves with known prostitute,
next morning prostitute is found murdered. Too easy - too simple. Hellier likes
things complicated, layer upon layer of possibilities and misdirection, endless
opportunities to bend the evidence away from proving he's the killer. But above
all, there was no way he was going to miss out on a week of fantasizing about
how it would feel - killing Daniel Graydon. For him, that would have been every
bit as important as the killing itself. Once he'd killed the girl in Dagenham
he'd opened Pandora's Box - there's no going back for him now, even though he
knows we're watching him. He won't stop, he can't. Knowing we're watching him
merely heightens his excitement - makes him even more dangerous.'
'Did he leave any evidence at the Dagenham scene?' Sally asked.
'No. Just a useless footprint.'
'Then how are we going to convict him?'
Sean thought silently before answering. 'If Hellier has a weakness, if he has
one chink in his armour, it's his desire for perfection.'
'I don't understand,' said Sally, frowning.
'He can't leave things half-done, untidy, incomplete. Look at his clothes, his
hair, his office, his home. Everything immaculate. Not a thing out of place. He
couldn't have that. It's the same when he kills. Everything has to be perfect.
Exactly how he imagines it.'
Sally puffed on her cigarette. 'How do you know all this?' she asked. 'I've
watched you study crime-scene photographs in the past, and suddenly it's like
you're there. Like you're the ...' A look from Sean stopped her before she'd
finished.
'I see things differently, that's all,' he explained. 'Most people investigate
crimes two-dimensionally. They forget it's a three-dimensional thing. They seek
the motive, but not the reason for the motivation.
'You have to question the killer's every move, no matter how trivial. Why
choose that victim? Why that weapon? That location? That time of day? Most
people are happy just to recover a weapon, to identify the scene, but they're
missing the point. If you want to catch these poor bastards quickly, then you
have to try and think like them. No matter how uncomfortable that may make you
feel.'
'You feel sorry for them?' asked Sally.
Sean hadn't realized he'd shown sympathy. 'Sorry?'
'You called them "poor bastards". Like you felt sorry for them.'
'Not sorry for what they are now,' he told her. 'Sorry for what made them that
way. Sorry for the hell that was their childhood. Alone. Scared to death most
of the time. Terrified of the very people they should have loved. Fearful of
those they should have been able to turn to for protection. Sometimes, when I'm
interviewing them, I don't see a monster in front of me. I see a child. A
scared little child.'
'Is that what you see when you look at Hellier?'
'No,' he answered without hesitation. 'Not yet. It's too soon. I haven't broken
him down to make him face what he really is. When I do, I'll know if he's a
product of his past or something else.'
'Something else?' Sally asked.
'Born that way. Whether he was born bad. It's rare, but it happens.'
'And you already suspect that's the case with Hellier.' It wasn't really a
question.
'Go home, Sally,' he said quietly. 'Get some rest. I'll call Dave and set up an
office meeting for the morning. We'll talk then, but right now you need to go
home, and so do I.'
Hellier typed the password fuck them all. The false screen began to break away
by design. When it was gone it was replaced by a screen filled with twenty-four
different banks' insignia. Many of the major banks of the developed world were
shown, as well as several more specialized ones. They all held accounts
belonging to Hellier: some in that name, others in aliases he'd invented. He
had excellent forged documents hidden across Europe, Northern America, the
Caribbean, the Middle East and South East Asia.
He'd created this website, which appeared to offer advice to private
individuals considering purchasing stocks and shares, particularly shares in
financial institutions; its main purpose, however, was to hide his complex
network of bank accounts and the locations of the false identities that would
allow him to access them. There were so many he could never have hoped to
remember them all. But with this hidden guide, no matter where he was in the
world, provided he could access the Internet he could access his funds.
The priority was to empty his UK and USA accounts. The others couldn't be
touched by UK authorities. Fucking Americans, he thought, always happy to slam
shut accounts on the flimsiest of suspicions. Always so keen to help Scotland
fucking Yard. Sycophants.
He worked fast. He would be at the terminal for hours, but by the time he was
finished the vast majority of his considerable wealth would have been
transferred to South East Asia and the Caribbean. Out of the reach of the
police. Now, if he had to run, he wouldn't have to be poor too. There were many
places in this world where a man's tastes were only restricted by the depth of
his wealth.
Donnelly and DC Zukov were hidden in the office building almost directly
opposite Hellier's. Donnelly was half asleep on the sofa when he felt the phone
clipped to his waistband vibrate. The display told him it was Sean. 'Guv'nor.'
'Where's Hellier now?'
'Still at work, like us.'
'He's up to something.'
'I'm sure he probably is.'
'I've found another murder Hellier may have committed.'
'What?' Donnelly sat bolt upright.
'About three and a half weeks ago. A teenage runaway found dead out by the Ford
factory.'
Donnelly's eyes darted left and right as he thought hard. 'I remember. It was
on the news, right?'
'Yeah, but it's still unsolved. No suspects. I met the DI running the inquiry.
They've got nothing.'
'How though ...' Donnelly was a little confused. 'How did you connect it to
ours?'
'Long story, bad time,' Sean said. 'Phone around and organize an office meeting
for the morning. I'll update you then.' Sean hung up before Donnelly could ask
any more questions.
'Fuck it,' Donnelly said out loud.
DC Zukov lowered his binoculars and turned to Donnelly. 'Problem?' he asked.
'Aye, son,' Donnelly replied. 'But nothing we can't handle.'
Hellier sat in the deep leather chair. It creaked satisfyingly. He'd completed
the transfers. It had taken him less than three hours to move over two million
pounds out of his UK and American accounts. He'd left a nominal few thousand in
each, to keep them fluid.
He buried the account details in the concealed web page and exited the
Internet. He was happy with his night's work. Extremely happy. He couldn't help
laughing. God, if they could see him, sitting here in the dark laughing to
himself, they really would think him mad. He was anything but.
It was time to get home. He cleaned up the desk and took one last look around
the room to make sure nothing had been overlooked, then returned to his own
office. Leaving the lights on, he went to the window and peeked out the corner
of the venetian blinds. They made a plastic tinkling sound.
He had an excellent view of the road below. It was always busy, no matter what
time of day or night. He could still feel the police close by. It was of no
matter tonight; there were others of more concern to him than the police. The
press. The vile media. They had the power to ruin him merely by rumour. They
wouldn't be interested in proof. They wanted a story to titillate the masses.
Something for people to drool over at breakfast. They wanted him. He couldn't
afford to let them take a single photograph. He couldn't afford to be
recognized.
Sally parked close to the entrance of the building where she lived in Fulham,
West London. She let herself in and moved quickly through the communal areas.
Dim hallway lights helped her. She tried to keep the noise down. She was a good
neighbour. She entered her flat and locked the door.
Following her usual routine, she turned on the lamp in the far corner first.
She preferred its gentle light to the overheads. Next she flicked the TV on,
for company, then moved into the kitchen, opened the fridge and scanned the
contents before closing it again. Maybe she'd have more luck in the freezer.
She did. A freezing bottle of raspberry vodka rested on its side. Grabbing it
by the neck, she looked around for a clean glass. There was one by the sink.
She poured a good measure of the thick vodka and threw the bottle back into the
freezer.
Sally sat at her kitchen table and rocked back on her chair, kicking her shoes
off, the drink in front of her. She pulled the cigarettes from her handbag and
lit one. It must have been the thirtieth of the day. She thought about stubbing
it out, but hey, cigarettes cost a fortune these days. Covering a mortgage on a
flat in this part of London didn't leave much in the kitty for luxuries.
Staring at the walls suddenly brought on pangs of loneliness. Being
thirty-something and single hadn't been part of her life-plan. The partner
thing had just never happened. There had been lovers, two of whom had been
close to measuring up to her standards, only to fall away as the stakes were
increased.
The fact of the matter was most men were simply intimidated by her. Being a
female police officer was bad enough, but a detective sergeant - that scared
the crap out of them. The only ones who weren't scared off were policemen, but
the idea of never being able to escape The Job was unbearable. No, they had to
be completely unconnected with the police or it would be better to stay single.
Besides, these last couple of years hadn't left a lot of time for relationships.
Naturally, her parents were disappointed. They saw their chances of becoming
grandparents slipping away. Didn't they understand modern women were choosing
to have a career first and then children later in life? There was still hope on
that front. After all, she didn't need a permanent partner to have children.
Catching herself fantasizing about potential sperm donors, she shook the faces
from her thoughts.
'Fuck it,' she declared out loud. 'I'm getting a cat.'
Hellier could see two of them at the front of the building. One had a camera,
the other didn't. One photographer and one journalist, but there would be more.
The victim was of no interest to the media, no story there. Rent boy dies, who
gives a fuck? He was the story. Wealthy, respected businessman investigated for
murder. A sordid murder at that. This story would grow and grow. It was only a
matter of time before the national media started to run with it. Once his face
hit the papers and TV sets, life would be intolerable. He needed his anonymity.
Daniel Graydon had been a mistake, but it was a mistake he would survive.
There would be more journalists covering the rear exit to the building, through
the basement car park. There was only one way out. He'd found it within days of
starting work at Butler and Mason. He always liked to know alternative ways of
leaving a building. Just in case.
He took his house keys and wallet from his briefcase, then slid it under his
desk. It would be too cumbersome for what he had in mind. Making his way to the
emergency stairwell, he climbed to the top floor. He looked up at the hatch
that led to the roof. It was secured with a bolt.
The next bit was the most difficult. He had to climb on the stair rail and keep
his balance until he could stretch his hands to the ceiling and hold himself in
place. He managed that much. His feet twisted a little on the thin metal
banister as he fought to keep his balance. He reached out to the bolt with his
right arm. His left hand was still pressed to the ceiling.
The bolt came out after a series of solid jerks. Each jerk almost threw
Hellier's balance. If he lost it now, he would either fall three feet forward
to safety, or tumble backwards down the stairwell, six flights.
He pushed on the roof exit cover. It gave way easily. He used his fingers to
caterpillar the wooden cover away from the exit. Every sinew of his body was
already stretched to breaking point.
The cover removed, he sprang off the banister and hooked both hands over the
outside edge of the square hole in the roof. His body dangled below as he
pulled himself up and through the roof exit. Hellier was in excellent physical
condition. He'd worked hard to build his strength and develop the physique of
an acrobat.
He replaced the cover, making a mental note to push back the bolt in the
morning before anyone noticed. He took a few seconds to straighten his clothes
and admire the view from the rooftop. He felt alone, but strong. Safe. He
sucked in the warm night air, heavy and moist. Time to go. He moved fast and
silently across the roofs.
15
Last night I had an almost overwhelming desire to be the real me. To release
the animal that hides inside and allow it full and free expression. But I
resisted the temptation. Too many things to arrange first. If I'm to take
advantage of the police's lapses, then I must be patient. Must take time to
prepare. Their heads will be spinning soon enough.
I'm at work again; boring, but necessary. I read the papers and watch the news
endlessly. I have to be sure they haven't linked any of my so-called crimes.
I've been considering looking outside of London for my next subject. Can't say
the idea appeals much, though. London lends itself so well to my imagination.
It truly is a magnificent backdrop, so I think I'll stay for now. But it's
almost inevitable I'll have to leave before too much longer. Sooner or later
some bright spark will make a connection. They'll never connect them all.
Impossible. But they'll connect two, maybe more, and then they'll start to take
things seriously and that won't be good for me.
16
Wednesday morning
By 7.30 a.m. Sean was back at work. A few hours' sleep, a shower and clean
clothes had partially revived him. He would be briefing half the team soon. The
other half were still across London, watching Hellier's office. Apparently
Hellier hadn't gone home all night. He'd stayed in his office. He was
definitely up to something.
Sean's office phone rang. 'DI Corrigan speaking.' He tried to disguise his
tiredness.
'Morning, sir,' a voice on the other end replied. 'I'm DC Kelsey, calling from
SO11.' The name meant nothing to Sean. 'You sent some numbers to us. Telephone
numbers in an address book taken from a James Hellier. You wanted subscribers'
checks on them?'
Sean remembered. 'Yes, of course. How can I help?'
'Just a courtesy call, really. To let you know we did the checks and none of
them came back as a trace. Basically, they're not telephone numbers as such.'
'"As such"?' Sean asked.
'Yeah. I think they could be telephone numbers ultimately, but they're probably
coded.'
Sean stood up. He'd expected as much. So that was why Hellier denied having
Daniel Graydon's number in the book. If he'd admitted to that, he would have
had to declare his code and then they could have deciphered every number in the
book. They could have traced all his secret contacts. It would have told them a
great many things. Hellier was careful. The killer was careful.
'Could you decipher the code?' Sean asked.
'We don't do deciphering at SO11,' DC Kelsey replied.
'Any idea who does?'
'There isn't anywhere specific that I know of. You need to find your own
expert. MI5, a university lecturer, something like that.'
'Tell me you're joking?' Sean said, without knowing why he was so surprised.
'Afraid not. But I get some quiet spells, sometimes. I could have a play with
them for you, if you like.'
'You're a good man,' Sean replied. 'Call me as soon as you get anything.' He
hung the phone up only for it to immediately ring again. At the same time Sally
appeared at the door. He held his index finger up to stall her and grabbed the
phone.
'DI Corrigan.' Still early morning and already his telephone-answering manner
was degenerating.
'Guv'nor, it's Stan.' It was DC Stan McGowan, the detective in charge of the
second makeshift surveillance team. 'I don't know what happened here last
night,' he went on, 'but someone on the other surveillance crew fucked up.'
'What's going on?'
'I was told Target One didn't leave the office last night.' Stan used
surveillance language to describe Hellier.
'That's what I heard.'
'Then why did we just see Target One enter it?'
Sean sat slowly. 'Impossible.'
'Impossible or not, I've seen him with my own eyes. It's been confirmed by O.P.
One and Three. And he's wearing fresh clothes too. Sorry, boss. Someone fucked
up.'
Sean knew what it meant. Hellier had been running free again. All night. Would
there be a price to pay for their mistake? Had it cost someone their life?
Donnelly appeared in his doorway as he was slamming the phone down. 'Problem?'
he asked.
Sean gave a long sigh before answering. 'Whoever was covering Hellier last
night lost him.' He sprang to his feet and began moving toward the briefing
room. Donnelly and Sally followed.
'No way,' Donnelly insisted. 'Not while I was covering him, no fucking way. He
made it easy for us and stayed at work all night, too scared of the press to
show his face.'
'Sorry, Dave.' Sean spoke without looking at him. 'It's been confirmed. No
mistake. Hellier slipped past you. I need you to work out how that could have
happened and when it could have happened.'
'I don't fucking believe this,' Donnelly protested.
'It's done, Dave.' Sean still didn't look at him. 'Let it go.'
Sally tried to help. 'There were no murders last night. I've already checked.'
'You mean there were no murders discovered last night,' Sean pointed out.
'There's a difference,' he added unnecessarily. 'Let's hope there'll be no more
cock-ups today.'
'Wait a minute, guv'nor,' Donnelly protested. 'I said this half-baked
surveillance was a waste of time. I had five tired detectives to cover a
target. It was never going to be enough.'
Sean realized his mistake. 'Okay. Okay. I know you and the team would have done
your best. Maybe there's another way out of the building?'
'There is,' Donnelly snapped. 'Through a basement car park, but we had that
covered.'
'Something else then.' Sean wanted to leave the subject.
'Maybe,' Donnelly conceded.
They swept into the briefing room. There were only five detectives waiting for
them. Sean was running out of people. The surveillance effort was putting
pressure on his resources.
What chatter there had been died down quickly. Everybody automatically took a
seat. Sean decided not to mention that Hellier had slipped through their
surveillance. He'd let Donnelly tell them later. He knew where Hellier was now,
so there was no point making more of it. He could ill afford divisions in his
team.
Conscious of time closing in on him, he got straight to business: 'We may well
have linked our boy to another murder,' he informed the small audience of
detectives. There was a murmur around the room, but no looks of surprise. Sean
had told Donnelly the night before. He must have spread the news already.
'On what grounds?' Donnelly asked.
'Three things,' Sean replied. 'The lack of usable forensic evidence. The fact a
shoeprint belonging to a plain-soled shoe approximately the same size as those
found at our scene was recovered. And the type of victim.'
'Hold on there, guv'nor,' Donnelly said. 'I thought the victim out east was a
teenage girl.'
Sean felt the eyes of the room watching him, waiting for a response. 'I don't
think the sex of the victims is relevant.' He knew he had to convince his team
that he was right. It was vital that he took them with him. If he lost their
confidence now, he would be alone. Isolated.
'Okay,' Donnelly said. 'How we going to move this thing forward?'
'Publicity,' Sean answered. 'It's the one tool left in the box that we haven't
used. It'll spread the inquiry wider than we can without it. I'm hopeful it'll
turn up a key witness. Someone placing Hellier at or near the victim's home on
the night of the murder. Maybe he used a cab. Maybe we'll get lucky.
'You sort out a press conference, Dave,' Sean continued. 'But make sure you
keep our Press Bureau informed. I don't want to piss on anybody's chips. Sally,
you'll take care of Crimewatch.'
'Gonna be a TV star, eh, Sally?' Donnelly teased. Sally flicked him a
middle-finger salute.
'The Murder Investigation Team investigating the East London killing will do
their own press stuff,' Sean announced. 'At this time we're not going to
mention there could be a link between the two.'
'Why?' Donnelly asked.
'We don't want to panic the public,' Sean told him. 'We want to use the press
in a controlled fashion. We're not out to make headlines here.
'Secondly, and more importantly, we don't want the killer knowing we've made a
link. If it is Hellier, then let's leave him thinking we're only looking at him
for the one. Keep the pressure on him for our murder and maybe he'll be
distracted and make a mistake with the other. No point in showing him our hand.
The next time I interview Hellier, I want to be able to take him to pieces, bit
by bit. If we can get the evidence, then I'll be able to break through to him
and get him talking - and if I can get him talking, I can bury him. If I can
get him talking, he'll bury himself.'
'What about the other two suspects?' Zukov asked before the detectives
scattered. 'Paramore and Jonnie Dempsey?'
'Anything, anybody?' Sean asked.
'Paramore's still missing,' said Donnelly, 'but Fiona's dug something up on
Dempsey. Fiona ...'
DC Fiona Cahill, a tall, slim detective in her mid-thirties with short, neatly
cut hazel hair, got to her feet, her slightly deep voice and cultured accent
further setting her apart. 'I've been working my way through Daniel's friends
one by one. I spoke to a guy called Ferdie Edwards who tells me that Dempsey
did indeed know Daniel and that they were friends, but he also told me they
were more than just that.'
'Lovers?' Sean jumped in, a flicker of excitement in his heart.
'No,' said Cahill. 'Business partners.'
'What?' Sean asked disbelievingly.
'Apparently, Dempsey worked as a kind of middle-man. If he heard of a customer
in the club who might be willing to pay for sex, he'd steer them towards Daniel
- for a cut of the money, of course. He'd also look out for Daniel, watch his
back, so to speak.'
'This is all very interesting,' Sean said impatiently, 'but where are we going
with it?'
'Well, Edwards reckons that Daniel was getting a bit fed up with the
arrangement.'
'You mean he was getting fed up handing over a share of his hard-earned cash to
Dempsey,' Donnelly guessed.
'Exactly,' Cahill confirmed. 'Edwards said they'd had at least one heated
argument over it - Dempsey telling our victim he'd have him banned from the
club if he didn't keep paying up, and Daniel telling Dempsey he already had
someone else in the club watching his back who would make sure he was never
barred from entering.'
'Do we know who?' Sean asked.
'No. Not yet.'
'Probably one of the bouncers,' Donnelly said.
'Probably,' Sean agreed. 'What a bloody mess.'
'Oh, what a tangled web we weave when we practice to deceive,' Donnelly added.
Sean took over: 'Jonnie the barman has just taken a significant step forward as
a viable suspect, so let's find him. And let's find out who else had Daniel's
back at the nightclub. And while we're at it, let's find Paramore too. We need
to speak to all of them - and soon.'
'All right, everybody,' said Donnelly, stepping on as soon as he judged Sean
had finished. 'You've all got plenty to be getting on with, so let's hustle.
And make sure you return all completed actions back to me as soon as they're
ready. You get the jigsaw pieces and I solve the puzzle, remember?'
The meeting broke up, the few detectives who had been there swiftly exiting the
briefing room. Other than Sean, Donnelly was the last to leave. He nodded to
Sean on his way out, moving a little faster than normal, but not so anyone
would have noticed. Instead of returning to the incident room with everyone
else, he headed for the fire exit and walked down two flights of stairs to the
main part of the station. Still moving fast, he made his way to a small room
that housed two old photocopying machines. It also had a phone. The room was
empty. Donnelly picked up the phone and dialled.
DS Samra answered. 'Hello.'
'Raj. It's Dave.'
'David.' Samra sounded cautious. 'What you after?'
'That little matter I discussed with Jimmy Dawson and yourself ...' He let it
hang, waiting for Samra to respond.
'I remember,' Samra confirmed.
'Change of plan.'
'I'm listening.'
'I'm not just interested in homosexual murders now. I need to know about
anything nasty, and I need to know first.'
'How nasty we talking?'
'Stranger attacks. Lack of motive, lots of mess. Anything sexual too. I'm not
interested in domestics, gang-related, drugs or drunks.'
'I'll do my best,' Raj said.
'Same as before,' Donnelly continued. 'Spread the word, but keep it quiet.
Remember, I need to know first.' He hung up.
Raj looked at his phone for a moment, then he began to make some calls. He
called DS Jimmy Dawson first. If Jimmy was happy to do as Donnelly said, then
so was he.
Hellier stood by the window in the office of one of the other junior partners.
They drank coffee and shared a few sexist jokes. Their perfect secretary was
the brunt of much of their posturing and sexual boasting. It was as well she
couldn't hear them.
Hellier meant little of what he said. It was important to engage in this sort
of social discourse with his colleagues once in a while. Especially now,
following his arrest. The innuendo that he was gay could be more damaging than
being suspected of murder. Ridiculous people.
His mood was excellent this morning. He would have paid a considerable sum to
have been a fly on the wall when Corrigan found out he'd slipped past them.
They'd look like fools a few more times before he was finished.
And then, when the time was perfect, he'd disappear. Leave this God-cursed
place and start again. But first Corrigan needed breaking. He'd sworn it.
Corrigan had humiliated him and now he would pay a heavy price. The Italians
say revenge is a dish best served cold. He didn't agree. His would be served
scalding hot.
The perfect secretary knocked on the open door. He shook the daydreaming from
his head.
'What is it, Samantha?' Hellier's colleague asked.
She looked at Hellier. 'It's actually Mr Hellier I need to see.'
Hellier stood away from the window sill. He smiled pleasantly. 'Fire away.'
'I have someone on the phone for you, sir, but they won't give me a name or
tell me what it's about.'
Fucking journalists. Fucking Corrigan. 'Well, get rid of them then.'
Strangely, Samantha hesitated at the door, her obedience faltering.
Hellier saw the hesitation. 'Well?' he asked.
'They sound quite desperate, sir. They claim to have very important information
for you. They'll only speak to you personally and in private.'
Hellier's eyes narrowed. 'Put the call through to my office.'
Sally walked to the Headquarters of the National Criminal Intelligence Service,
known as NCIS, situated in Spring Gardens, Lambeth, close to both the forensic
laboratory and the nightclub where Daniel Graydon had spent his last night.
NCIS remained low profile. You wouldn't know they were there unless you were
looking hard.
She had abandoned her car to the mercy of traffic wardens and small-time
thieves. Life still functioned at the base level in Lambeth. Survival of the
fittest was the nature of the game here. Any respect or fear the local
population had for the police had long since disappeared. They lived by their
own laws now.
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 warrant card 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
towards 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 favour. 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.'
The 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 who 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.
'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 on the lottery as much as they like,
but they'll never be like us. Never walk amongst 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 orientated. 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 judgement 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 only protect you 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 continued 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 that, 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.'
Sean 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 Utopia
nightclub that night. Perhaps a cab driver 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 made Sean
almost 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 a little open.
'What's the description?' the journalist asked.
'We believe we're looking for a white male, in his forties. He's slim, fair
hair 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 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 some time 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 any more 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.
Hellier had followed the instructions given on the phone exactly. He'd left
work at 6 p.m. and walked out of 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
travelling 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
metres away. The man on the phone had said he would be there at seven thirty.
He would be carrying a small blue Reebok rucksack and wearing a yellow shirt.
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 they found out more than they'd
bargained for? Something that could be dangerous to him? 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
favourite London statue.
For 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 behaviour? 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.
Hellier checked his watch. It was three minutes since he last checked. Ten past
eight. The man had sworn he'd be there by eight. He was late. He hadn't called.
Damn it. 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.
Kate 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 dramatically
paused as he informed the nation 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
programme 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.
17
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 any more. 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 spoilt. 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 towards 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 metre or so behind her. I can smell her clearly now. The scent is almost
overpoweringly beautiful.
The train stops and we both step on to 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 on to 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 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 newsagents. 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 cafe. It won't cause me a long-term problem, but it'll
destroy tonight's plans.
I keep a reasonable distance. Ten metres 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-storey terraced 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 fleapit boarding houses.
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 learnt 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 any more. The
houses have blocked its fading light. I'm so close. The street lamps 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.
Linda 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
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 any more, 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 metres 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 adverts
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
any more; 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
travelled 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 off-licences 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 were
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 unspoilt 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.
She started walking faster. She was aware she was breathing heavily under the
strain. She tried to listen for footsteps, but she could hear only her own. The
street lamps flickered into life. They cast faint shadows across the pavement.
The noise of the leaves rustling in the trees all around her suddenly became
deafening.
She felt someone coming closer. She wanted to stop, turn and confront them, be
brave, but fear was taking a hold. It licked at her skin like a fire
surrounding its victim. Every hair on her back stood erect, reverberating. She
felt so cold. Panic was close now.
Too late, she heard the footsteps. He had been right behind her. At the last
second she spun around, ready to scream. It was him. The man from the
underground. He looked as scared as she felt. He jumped back a step.
'Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you,' he said. He had a nice voice. Well spoken.
'Christ,' she managed to say. She held a hand dramatically over her chest. 'You
almost scared me to death.' They both laughed.
She moved away a little from him. Her expression became serious. 'Are you
following me?'
He put his hand in his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a small black
leather wallet. He flicked it open and showed it to her. She could see the
Metropolitan Police logo on the metal badge. She sighed in relief. Her entire
body seemed to relax.
'I couldn't help but notice a couple of lads having a good look at that
briefcase back there.' He pointed over his shoulder.
'The ones outside the betting office?'
'Yeah. I hate to stereotype people, but thought I'd watch them for a bit. Keep
an eye on them.'
'Is that why you stopped at the bus stop?'
'Oh,' he said. 'You noticed? Surveillance never was my thing.' They both
laughed again. 'Two of them looked as if they could be following you, so I
thought I'd better do the same, just in case. But I seem to have lost them back
at that junction somehow.
'Do you have far to go?' he asked.
'No,' she answered. 'I live down here. A few houses along.'
'Nice,' he said. She couldn't tell if he meant it. 'You'll be okay from here,'
he said. 'I think you got away with it today.' He winked at her. She could tell
he was about to leave. She didn't want him to.
'You don't sound like a policeman.' It was all she could think of.
'Really,' he replied, smiling. 'Well, we don't all sound like they do on the
television. Some of us can even read and write.'
She liked him.
'Look,' he said. 'I've got to get on. Somewhere there's a crime being committed
and all that.'
She felt her embarrassment rising, but it was worth it to flirt a little.
'Sorry,' she said. 'I didn't get your name.'
'Sean,' he replied. 'It's Sean Corrigan.' He was already walking away though.
'If he turns around he's interested,' Linda whispered to herself. 'Any time
now.' He turned and gave her a casual wave and slight smile. 'Yes,' she said to
herself. 'Yes.'
Donnelly arrived home via his favourite local watering hole in time to catch
the start of Crimewatch. He felt sorry for Sally being stitched up by Sean like
that, but at least it meant he didn't have to do it. Although there were always
ways to get out of unpleasant tasks like telly work, especially for those with
a little imagination and a lot of experience. He walked up the driveway of the
family home, a large semi-detached in Swanley, Kent. The five kids were all
growing up fast. He had to live out here to be able to put a roof over their
heads. London prices were out of the question. Still, the train ride was just
about bearable and there was no need to worry about getting caught driving
half-pissed. He gave the decaying Range Rover, the only family car, a pat of
appreciation as he passed it. It hadn't cost him a penny in years.
His wife, Karen, confronted him as soon as he opened the front door. 'You're
late again,' she accused in her East End accent. They'd been married for more
than twenty years.
'Overtime, my sweetness,' he answered. 'May I remind you we need every penny I
can lay my hands on?' His wife answered with a roll of her eyes. 'Speaking of
financial burdens, where are the kids?'
Karen thrust her hands on her hips. 'Jenny is out with her boyfriend, Adrian is
out with his girlfriend, Nikki and Raymond are upstairs on the PlayStation and
Josh is in his bed.'
'Jenny lives at home?' Donnelly asked with mock surprise.
'She's only seventeen, remember? Still at school, doing her A-levels?'
'Bloody further education,' he moaned. 'We'll be broke before any of our lot
get themselves a job and leave home. By the time I was seventeen I was working
in the shipyards in Dumbarton, earning a decent wage and learning a proper
trade.'
'Until you decided it was too bloody hard and ran off to join the police in
London.'
'Aye, well,' he stalled. 'All the same, I was paying my own way in the world.'
'Spare me.'
'Give us a kiss and I'll think about it,' he teased.
'I don't bloody think so. When it comes to you, my mother was right: kissing
does lead to children. And seeing how we've got four more than we can afford,
you're going to have to park your lips somewhere else. Besides, I hate it when
your moustache tastes of beer.'
'I've not touched a drop,' he lied.
'A likely story.'
'Very well, I shall retire to the lounge,' he sulked in a put-on accent. 'I
need to watch Crimewatch tonight anyway.'
'Jesus. Haven't you had enough of the job for one day?'
'Our case is on tonight. It would be bad form to miss it. It'll be the talk of
the canteen tomorrow.'
'I wanted to watch that programme about Princess Diana tonight.'
'You can watch the repeat,' he told her unsympathetically.
The television was already on in the living room. Some cheap production with a
shaky set and worse acting. He pointed the remote at the offending programme
and surfed the channels until he found what he was looking for.
'When is your case on?' Karen asked.
'I don't know. I'll have to watch the whole bloody thing, no doubt. Bloody
Crimewatch. Waste of bloody space, if you ask me.'
'Oi. Stop your swearing, the kids might hear.'
'Saying "bloody" isn't swearing.' He flopped his heavy frame into the old
armchair reserved for his sole use. 'Media appeals, waste of time. Expecting
the public to solve crimes for us. It's not how we used to get the job done.'
'We all know how you used to get the job done,' Karen said.
'Bloody right. We did what we had to do to keep the baddies off the streets. We
may have sent the wrong man down for the wrong crime, but they were all
criminals anyway. It's our job to put them away. Didn't matter how we did it,
so long as we got the job done. The people we put away never complained either.
They knew the score. For them it was just an occupational hazard. It's my job
to keep the scum off the streets. How I do it is my business. Everyone else can
stay in their nice, fluffy little worlds.'
'The old days are gone,' Karen reminded him. 'So you had better be careful.'
'Aye,' he grumbled. 'Don't worry about me, love. I can look after myself.'
'I don't doubt it, but who's going to look after me and the kids if you get the
sack for fitting someone up?'
'Murders are different. You don't fit people up with murder. Maybe you can give
the evidence a bit of help here and there, once you're absolutely certain
you've got the right man, but you never fit someone up.'
'Your DI Corrigan doesn't sound like the sort of man who would want you giving
the evidence a bit of help.'
'Don't underestimate the man,' he told her. 'Corrigan knows the score. He's no
accelerated promotion, graduate entry, brown-noser. He's come up the hard way.
If push comes to shove, he'll do what it takes.'
'Sure of that, are you?'
'Absolutely sure.'
Linda Kotler half-watched Crimewatch. She listened to the item about the murder
of Daniel Graydon and then the next item too. A sixty-year-old Post Office
attendant killed in Humberside for a hundred and twenty pounds. It was not
improving her mood. She turned over and began to watch another re-run. It made
her think of the policeman from earlier. Sean Corrigan.
The telephone interrupted her reminiscing. Despite her loneliness, she decided
leave it until the answerphone betrayed the caller. It was her sister. She
decided she was in the mood to speak after all. She had a secret to share.
'It's me. It's me,' she said into the phone. 'Ignore the answer machine. I'm
here, I'm here. Damn thing's going to record us now.'
'Screening your calls again?' her sister asked. 'That's a nasty habit you
Londoners have.'
'We have to,' Linda replied. 'Otherwise the only people we'd ever speak to
would be telesales people and unwanted relatives. How are you?'
'We're all good, thanks.' Her sister was married to a man she'd been at school
with. They had three children. She was younger than Linda. Once, her sister had
been a little jealous of her. Now Linda was a little jealous of her sister.
'What about you?' her sister asked. 'Met a nice, good-looking man yet?
Preferably rich?' It was the same question she'd been asking for the past few
months. Since he had left for pastures new and green.
'No,' Linda said. Then added, 'Not really.'
'Not really?' Her sister's tone was inquisitive. 'What does "not really" mean,
exactly?'
'Well, I met this guy on the way home today and one way or the other we ended
up talking. He seemed really nice, and good-looking too. It's not like we
swapped numbers or anything, although if he wanted to find me, he could.'
'What makes you say that?'
'Because he's a policeman. A detective, I think.'
'Oooh,' was her sister's reply. 'And does he have a name?'
'Sean,' Linda answered. 'Sean Corrigan.'
Having introduced myself, I let her go. For a while anyway. It's the way I've
seen it happening. Now I need to lose myself for a few hours. Wait for my old
friend the darkness to arrive. I've done my homework and know the Boat Show is
on at Earl's Court Exhibition Centre. I have absolutely no interest in it, but
it is nearby and doesn't close until eleven. It's a good place to hide myself.
In a crowd, amongst the herd.
I mingle with them, my mask as secure as ever. It would be all too easy to lash
out at them. Drag whoever into the stinking toilets and slaughter them there.
But it is lack of control that more often than not undoes my kind. Control is
the key. Control is everything.
How I admire the man with the rifle in Germany who features in the news reports
every now and then. Every three months or so he blows the head off a nobody and
disappears. He is a rare breed indeed. Most sniper killers take a rifle, find
themselves a nice little vantage point and kill until they are killed.
Why? Because they lack the control. Once they taste the power to kill they just
can't stop. To take one life and then calmly pack away the rifle and go home is
too much for most. They get greedy, drunk on the killing, and before they
realize what's happened they're surrounded by police marksmen. Most make the
decision to go down fighting, but not this one in Germany. He is to be admired.
I shouldn't think he'll ever be stopped.
Me, I prefer a knife. Or my own hands. A rifle's not personal enough. I like to
smell their last breath in my face.
I leave the show after eleven. I walk back to Shepherd's Bush. It's a fair
walk, but I could use the exercise. It's a good warm-up and also means I avoid
potential witnesses like bus or taxi drivers. Pedestrians in London rarely look
at each other. I'm carrying a small rucksack slung over my shoulder. It
contains all I need.
By the time I get back to Minford Gardens it's close to midnight. Late enough
for most people to be tucked up in bed, early enough for the sounds of the
night not to be too alarming.
I move around to the side of the house. I'd checked the window here a few
nights previously. It's a sash window, leading to the bathroom. The lock is a
classic style. A simple spin-around metal latch. Any thin metal object will
make short work of opening it. She should have added side deadlock bolts. She
probably used to share the flat with a man. That made her feel safe when she
slept. Now she's alone, but hasn't had time to see to the window. On these warm
nights she sleeps with the windows closed. Clearly she's not totally unaware of
the dangers that lurk in this city.
Most of the upstairs windows are virtually impossible to reach, but not the
bathroom window. There's a solid metal drainpipe that runs past it. It's
secured to the wall with large steel brackets riveted to the brickwork. It'll
take my weight. I've already tried.
I begin to strip. I remove my shirt and tie. My trousers. Shoes, socks,
underpants. I fold them all very neatly and place them in a pile beside the
drainpipe. The alley by the side of the house is dark and quiet. No one would
have cause to come down here at this hour. The feeling of standing naked in the
warm dark night is beyond the imagination of most. The blood pumps through me,
bringing me to life. I stay in the alley longer than I'd intended, but it is
not a moment to be rushed. I wish I had a full-length mirror to watch myself in
[?] and rain. Heavy warm drops of rain pounding against my skin, forming small,
fast-flowing streams that would find the channels of my swelling, aching
muscles, making my skin shine like steel in the moonlight, the water flowing
over my body looking like liquid metal, like mercury. If only it was raining.
Never mind.
I pull a pair of tracksuit bottoms from the bag and put them on. I bought them
from JD Sports in Oxford Street about a month ago. I also pull on a tracksuit
top, bought at the same time, from the same place. They're matching blue. I
take a roll of wide gaffer tape from the bag and meticulously tape the bottom
of the trousers around my ankles. I need to seal the gap. I take a pair of new
leather gloves bought from Selfridges and put them on. Rubber ones would have
torn on the drainpipe. I use the tape to seal the gap at my wrists. I pull a
stocking over my head. It doesn't cover my face, there's no need for that, so
long as it covers my hair neatly.
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
car park 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 how I got in for a while, although ultimately I want them to
work it out.
I make certain the rucksack 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 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 favoured by
architects and surveyors. I work it into the gap between the upper and lower
sash window and begin to work the latch.
It takes a few minutes to do it quietly. Millimetre by millimetre 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
upwards 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 have the strongest odour 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
learnt 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 towards her bedroom. The corridor
is much darker than the room ahead. The street lights 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.
The door to her bedroom is ajar. I begin to push it slowly open with my left
arm. It swings gently aside. I can see her. Lying in her bed. She's wearing a
pyjama top. The only bed linen is a white sheet. It's still too warm for more.
The sheet only covers her from the waist down. I suspect she's wearing
underwear to make her feel less vulnerable.
I cross the bedroom. She hasn't closed the blinds properly. The street lights
cast a long shadow of me as I walk towards 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-grey 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 on to 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 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 upwards and backwards with one arm. I crash the back of her head
into the wall and let her fall unconscious back on to the bed. I watch her for
a few seconds. She's still alive. Good.
I move back across the bedroom to a set of drawers. I take a handful of her
tights back to the bed. There's some blood coming from the back of her head,
but not too much.
I take the gaffer tape from the rucksack and tear off a six-inch strip. I
fasten it across her mouth. I turn her on to her stomach, turning her head to
the side so she can breathe.
I take a pair of tights and tie them tightly around her neck, although not too
tightly. I attach these to another pair that I draw straight down her back. I
bend both legs so they are folded back on themselves. I connect them to the
tights running down the centre of her back.
Lastly I use another set to tie her hands at the wrists, also behind her back.
These I don't connect to the other bindings.
I take the knife I found in the kitchen and use it to slice her pyjama top open
along her back then rip it off her. She is wearing knickers as I suspected. I
cut them on both sides and pull them away. I step back and admire my work. She
lies naked and trussed.
I wait patiently. She groans. She's regaining consciousness. This time her eyes
don't flicker open gradually. They spring shockingly wide in an instant. As if
awakening from a nightmare. But she's not. She's awakening into a nightmare.
She had no idea how long she'd been unconscious for. Her 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. She breathed through her nose instead, but it
was impossible to get enough air into her lungs. Tears and mucus had narrowed
her nasal passage. If she panicked now she would suffocate to death.
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 towards 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 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. She tried so hard not to cry, but she wasn't strong enough to
stop the tears that began to stream down her face. They made her damaged eye
sting and burn.
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.'
It 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. To
watch her writhing naked in front of me, fighting with her bindings. At first
she cried constantly. I could hear her muffled pleas, but I ignored them. I
couldn't hear what she was saying clearly. It was a shame. I would have very
much liked to have heard what she was saying.
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.
With her face twisted to one side, I could see her profile. 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. The more she
struggled, the harder I pulled on the stocking that ran down her back. As I
pulled, the bindings tightened simultaneously, drawing her legs further up her
back as the thin nylon tightened around her throat. All her crying had released
the mucus in her nasal cavity, making disgusting noises as she tried to draw
breath. It was distracting and spoiling my experience. I hadn't pictured that
she would be so disgusting. I told her she had to stop sniffling or she would
die. Once she'd stopped I loosened her harness and allowed her body and head to
fall back to the bed.
I had never felt so powerful. I was magnificent above her, on top of her,
holding her in the harness made from her own clothing, her face pressed into
the mattress. I consumed all of her. As I reached orgasm I pulled the bindings
as hard as I could, my eyes shut in ecstasy. When I opened them again she was
dead. Her own urine ran down the inside of her legs [?] even in death the bitch
tried to spoil it for me.
I let my penis go flaccid while it was still inside her before carefully
pinching the ends of the condoms and pulling myself out. She slumped to the
floor on her side. Very carefully I removed the condoms, my flaccid penis
falling into my waiting hand, warm and slippery with sperm and spermicide, the
feel of it in my hand causing the excitement to return, but there was no time
for any more fun here. I put the condoms into a self-sealing freezer bag and
then into my rucksack. 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 rucksack. 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 smouldering log. I put the bag over my shoulder and head towards
Shepherd's Bush, although I'll keep walking for a few miles yet before catching
a night bus far enough away that it'll never be checked by the police.
I will go visiting again soon and next time will be the greatest yet.
18
Thursday morning
Sean, 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 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 favour. 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 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.
'Where are you?'
'It's a flat over in Shepherd's Bush. Seventy-three D, Minford Gardens.'
DC Zukov saw Donnelly appear on the pavement outside the crime scene and head
towards 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
bottle? '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.'
Sean 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 warrant card 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
forensic 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 towards the front door of number seventy-three
Minford Gardens, his focus intensifying on the half-open front door. He felt
tunnel vision overtaking, 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 odour. 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 seventy-three D. 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 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 odour 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 timeline. 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 haven'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. I'd probably keep the
windows shut myself.'
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
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 mid-morning. 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 neighbour 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.'
'Neighbours 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.
Hellier arrived home sometime after 3 a.m. to find 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 north-west 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 harbour. Yes, he could make
do with a harbour. 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 his friend was
something entirely different.
Sean 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.
The room was comfortable, almost snug. Too much furniture. Too many colours. A
real room. Years of impulse buying and fitting presents from family and friends
into the space had produced an uncoordinated history of the occupier. Kate
would have hated it. He quite liked it.
Did the killer come in here? If so, why? To be amongst her things? To spend a
moment with the photographs of the victim that were scattered all over the
room. Would he have put a light on to see better? Sean doubted it. Maybe he
used a torch? If he did and if he was the same killer, it would have been the
first time he used a torch. Again, Sean doubted it.
He'd been in here though. Sean was sure of it. He scanned the room over and
over. Is this where the killer came to prepare himself? Not to put on his
gloves and other protective clothing - he would have done that outside, before
he entered. But to be amongst her possessions, the very heart of her life. To
form a connection with her. The more he connected with her, the sweeter it
would be when the moment came to move down the corridor to her bedroom.
Hellier had a connection with the second victim, Daniel Graydon, albeit a
fleeting one. Did he have a connection with the first, Heather Freeman? Had the
murder team in the east missed something? Sean resolved to go back and check.
Was there a connection between the killer and this latest scene? Between
Hellier and the third victim?
Did the killer touch anything in here? Take off a glove and touch anything? No.
He was too controlled for that. Always in control. No mistakes. He would have
confined himself to looking. So he'd stood and looked. Just as Sean was now.
Sean left the room and moved back into the hallway. He pushed a door open on
his left. It was a small bedroom, being used for storage. Stuffed and tied bin
liners littered the floor. The room wasn't in keeping with the rest of the
flat. It was cold and impersonal. Whoever lived here didn't come in very often.
What was in those bin liners? They appeared to be waiting for someone to come
and take them away. Sean spotted the handle of a cricket bat protruding from
one of the bags. A man had recently been living in the flat. Had he lived with
the victim? Probably. Was he a jilted lover? Almost certainly. A suspect? He
would have to be.
If the room held little for the victim, then it would hold less for her killer.
Sean couldn't feel him in this place. He left, pulling the door back as he
found it, careful not to touch the handle.
He moved slowly down the hallway and pushed the next door on the left open. The
bathroom. It smelled like a woman's bathroom. Dozens of bottles of brightly
coloured liquids could be seen all over. Creams, make-up, cotton wool, lotions
and potions of all descriptions had found their way on to most of the flat
surfaces. Sean thought about how a single man's bathroom would look in
comparison. A comb, razor, shaving foam, maybe some hair and shower gel.
Aftershave, if he really cared about his appearance. The victim clearly liked
to spend time in this room. The room reminded him of Kate. He shook the thought
away. His wife had no place here.
The bathroom was very personal to the victim. Was it therefore personal to the
killer? He would have definitely been in here, but did he stay? What would have
attracted him? What was so personal to her that he may have had to touch it?
Maybe he held it up to his face, to his nose, to be as close to her scent as he
could. Maybe he had to taste her? Maybe he licked something? If he did, he
would have left his DNA.
Sean looked hard at the items in the bathroom. Nothing particularly caught his
attention. She kept it cluttered but clean. There was nothing here the killer
couldn't have resisted. A hairbrush that still had some hair in the bristles
was the most likely, but Sean wasn't hopeful. Nevertheless, it might be worth
special attention. Send it to the lab for DNA and fingerprints instead of
dusting it on site.
As he turned towards the door a sunray hit the catch on the small sash window.
The reflection was wrong. Uneven. There should have been one starburst of light
off the chrome catch, but Sean could see dozens.
The window was directly above the bath. Sean didn't want to have to climb into
the bath to get closer. If the killer somehow came in or went out through this
window he would have almost certainly had to put a foot in the bath. Sean
wouldn't risk stepping on a print. He couldn't see one with the naked eye, but
it didn't mean it wasn't there.
He examined the window frame from where he was. No deadlocks, only the catch.
Easy to open. Horribly easy. A novice burglar could do it in seconds. Sean
couldn't help but think how a ten-pound deadlock might have saved her life. He
felt sick at the thought.
He imagined the killer climbing in and out of the window. Where would he have
been least likely to touch? He decided on the area of wall directly below and
central to the window. He crouched down and reached across the bath with his
left arm. He placed the side of his gloved palm against the wall and leaned
forward so his face was only inches from the window catch.
Scratches. Dozens of small thin scratches. Fresh, without a doubt. Fresh cuts
in metal were always screamingly obvious. They glared like shiny new wounds,
but within days they dulled, rusted or stained. These were newborn.
There would be a drainpipe outside the window. This was the bathroom so there
had to be a drainpipe. He would check the outside, but he already knew what
he'd find.
Another change of method, Sean thought. This man's already thinking of court. A
decent defence solicitor would have a field day with this one. The police
trying to say three completely different murders were all linked. Sean wiped
sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.
He knew more than ever he needed something to hang Hellier with. Some piece of
indisputable evidence. If he could at least prove Hellier had committed one
murder, maybe he would confess to the others. Appeal to his ego. If he didn't
confess, no one would ever know how clever he'd been. How he'd outfoxed the
police. If Sean could prove one, he'd run with it. He wouldn't wait to be able
to prove the others. But a sudden chill froze him, as he pictured the image of
a man snaking in through the bathroom window - a man who wasn't James Hellier.
The sudden unexpected doubt momentarily terrified him - was he derailing the
investigation with his own prejudice against Hellier and all his perceived type
stood for? No. He shook the doubt away, remembering how he felt every time he
was in Hellier's presence, the animalistic scent of a survivor, a predator that
he'd smelled on him the very moment they first met. He was right about Hellier
- he had to be. He mustn't allow himself to be confused by Hellier's
camouflaging tactics.
Memories of Hellier's lies and all-too-convenient alibis reassured him, his
considerable efforts to avoid their surveillance and the crucial fact that he
knew at least one of the victims - Daniel Graydon. Sean had no doubts. Hellier
was psychopathically bad to the core, so if Hellier hadn't killed Graydon then
that would have to mean Graydon had not only randomly come into contact with
one killer, but two. The chances of that were negligible. Satisfied, Sean
breathed out a long sigh.
Carefully, he moved out of the bathroom and back into the corridor. The bedroom
loomed before him. He had another room to see first. He crossed the hallway and
entered the kitchen, again standing to the side to preserve any evidence on the
floor. He was suddenly aware of a crushing thirst. But he wouldn't use a tap at
the scene, fearful of destroying evidence that might be hiding in the drains of
the sink, just waiting to be found. His thirst would have to wait.
The kitchen was small and a little dingy. The units were from the early
eighties and badly needed a facelift. The oven was old too, made of white metal
and free-standing. The killer wouldn't have liked this room, Sean decided, but
he would have come in here. Maybe he took a knife from a cupboard to threaten
the victim with? Maybe he took a knife to kill her with, only to change his
mind? If he was to be true to form he'd want to change the way he killed as
well as the way he entered. All the knives in the kitchen would be taken away
for examination as a matter of routine.
Sean didn't stay in the kitchen long. Neither had the killer. He stepped
backwards into the hallway. The door to the bedroom was closed, but not shut
altogether. Had it swung shut itself, on uneven hinges? Or had DS Simpson or DC
Watson pushed it to in an attempt to show the victim some last respect?
Sean put the side of his left palm on the place the suspect was least likely to
have touched, the very top centre, between the two oblong panels. He pushed
gently. The door swung silently open.
Donnelly and Sally stood next to their car, smoking. Sally had found a cafe
nearby that sold good coffee. It didn't taste like the coffee sold in the cafes
around Peckham. Her mobile rang. She flicked her cigarette away before
answering. 'Sally Jones speaking.'
'Detective Sergeant Jones?'
'Who's asking?' She hadn't recognized the voice.
'You probably won't remember me. My name is Sebastian Gibran. We met at my
office when you came to see an employee of mine - James Hellier.'
She remembered now. It was the senior partner from Hellier's finance firm. 'I
remember,' she told him. 'But what I don't remember is giving you this mobile
number.'
'I'm terribly sorry, I phoned your office first, but you weren't there. Another
detective was good enough to give me your number.'
She wasn't impressed. Giving out a team member's mobile number to unseen
parties was a definite no-no. 'What is it I can do for you, Mr Gibran?'
'Not something I want to discuss over the phone, you understand? I feel it's
better if we meet, somewhere private. It's a sensitive matter.'
'Why don't you come to the police station?'
'I'd rather not be seen there, if it's all the same to you.'
'Where then?' Sally asked.
'Can you meet me for lunch tomorrow? I know a place that'll fit me in at short
notice. We'll be able to talk freely there.'
Over-confident bastard, but what was there to lose? 'Okay. Where and when?'
'Excellent,' Gibran responded. 'Che, just off Piccadilly, at one o'clock
tomorrow.'
'I'll be there,' Sally told him.
'I look forward to it.' She heard him hang up. Her expression was pensive.
'Problem?' Donnelly asked.
'No. At least I don't think so. That was Sebastian Gibran, Hellier's boss. He
wants to meet for a chat.'
'Well, well. Maybe Hellier's fancy friends are getting set to abandon him to
his fate.'
'The ritual washing of hands,' she declared. 'Not to mention a free lunch for
yours truly.'
'Do you want some company at this little get-together?'
'No. I get the feeling it'll go better if I meet him alone.'
'Fair enough, but don't forget to run it past the boss before you go,' Donnelly
warned her.
'Naturally. Listen, I need to follow up on something over in Surbiton. The boss
can do without me here for a while. I'll check back with you later, okay?'
'Suit yourself,' Donnelly replied. 'I'll let the guv'nor know you've
commandeered his vehicle.'
'No doubt that'll make him very happy,' she said. 'Almost as happy as when he
finds out I still haven't eliminated Korsakov as a possible suspect.'
'You will.'
'I'm not so sure.'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
'It means, the more I look into it, the more I don't like it. Something's not
right - I don't know what it is yet, but I know it's something.'
'Christ. You're getting as bad as the guv'nor.'
'No, seriously,' Sally argued. 'It's like everything to do with Korsakov has
disappeared, as if someone made him vanish.'
'Why would anyone do that?'
'I don't know. Maybe, for some reason, they're hiding him, so he can commit
further offences without being identified. Or maybe ...'
'Go on,' Donnelly encouraged her. 'You're amongst friends here.'
'Or, maybe someone got rid of him - killed him.'
'Like who?'
'One of his victims, or someone connected to one of his victims, someone
looking for revenge.'
'An eye for an eye,' Donnelly suggested.
'Or,' Sally continued, 'someone got rid of him so they could commit crimes they
knew we would eventually blame him for, because of the similarity of the method
- have us chasing a dead man we'd never be able to find.'
'Now you really do sound like the guv'nor,' Donnelly told her. 'Speaking of
which, have you discussed this with him?'
'Sort of. But he's so fixated on Hellier, I don't think he took it seriously.'
'I know what you mean,' Donnelly agreed. 'But don't let him stop you doing what
you think you should be doing. Remember, it's our job to keep him on the
straight and narrow - anchor him a bit - you know?'
She knew. 'I'll catch you later,' she said, and headed for the car.
The large bed was straight in front of Sean, the victim lying on it, a pretty
red light softly illuminating the room. Sean checked for the source of the
light. He found it in the far right corner of the room. A thin red silk
dressing gown was draped over a lampshade. At night the red illumination would
have been far stronger. Had the victim constructed the home-made light? Did it
stir a childhood memory? Had her nursery been lit with a red light and now the
colour helped her sleep?
No. The killer had made the light. He was sure of it. But had he made it after
he'd killed her or before? And why? What did the victim look like as she died,
painted with red light? Had the red been a replacement for her blood? But if
blood is so important to him, why not cut her like the others? Method, Sean
reminded himself. He's changing his method again. Disguising his work.
The killer was showing his intelligence, his control and imagination. It was
extremely rare for killers to have the ability to change methods so completely.
They lack control. Their killings are repetitions. Some try and disguise their
kills, but usually only after the murder. They'll burn the body, place it in a
car and push it off a cliff, sink it in deep water; but to plan the disguise
from the outset, to ensure everything from the victim selection to the murder
weapon changes every time - that was incredibly rare. It made the killer all
the more dangerous.
Did this killer have enough control to simply stop? To walk away and never kill
again? That would be the ultimate show of his strength. Had he killed enough
now to live off his memories? Sean thought of Hellier's public face. Absolutely
calm, calculating and clever. But he had seen glimpses of the creature that hid
behind Hellier's public facade. The snarling, arrogant Hellier. Could that
Hellier stop killing? Or would he have to be stopped? No, he decided. Hellier
liked the game too much.
Staying as close to the walls as he could, he moved clockwise around the room
towards Linda Kotler.
He passed a set of wooden drawers. They looked solid and expensive. One drawer
was still open. He looked in without touching anything as he took one large
step around them. He could see it was where the victim kept her tights and
stockings. Had the killer or the victim opened the drawer? One glance at the
body told him the killer had. He wouldn't risk buying or stealing his own. A
man buying stockings could easily be remembered by a sales assistant. A wife
might become suspicious if her stockings or tights went missing. She might read
about this murder and begin to suspect a husband, a boyfriend, a son. The
killer would have been relatively sure he'd find what he was looking for inside
the victim's home. No need to risk bringing his own.
Sean kept moving around the room until he was no more than three feet away from
the victim. He stopped. He wouldn't go closer for fear of disturbing any
forensic evidence. The three-foot circumference around the body would be the
golden zone.
He studied the body, slowly and deliberately scanning it from head to toe and
back. He tried to remain dispassionate, removed, as if the body wasn't real, as
if this was only an exercise.
She was lying on her left side. Naked and pale now. Lifeless. She looked
anything but peaceful. The dead never looked peaceful, at least not until a
skilled undertaker did their work. One eye was half open. The other was swollen
shut. He tried to imagine her alive. She'd have been quite attractive, he
thought, but it was hard to tell.
Her legs were bent painfully far back. The thin, tightly stretched tights bound
her ankles. They had cut into the skin. They were connected to another pair
that ran up her back to her neck. This was in turn connected to another pair of
tights or perhaps a stocking, tightly bound around the neck and throat. The
flesh of the throat bulged around the ligature, concealing most of the
material. Her hands had been bound separately at the wrists with more of her
own tights. The hands had become swollen by the tightness of the bindings. Why
had the hands been tied separately? So elaborate. It reminded Sean of the
rigging on a yacht. The knots used would have to be analysed. What sort were
they? Were they used in sailing or some other sport or hobby?
Why did he need the bindings to connect so precisely? Bondage? Hellier's
favourite. Was he deliberately tormenting them?
She must have been in terrible pain. She would have called out in pain,
screamed for help. Her killer wouldn't have let that happen. He would have
gagged her. But her mouth wasn't covered. Sean leaned closer to her face. The
area around the mouth was a little red. It looked sore. Had the killer used
tape that he'd taken away with him? If so, he'd done that before. Heather
Freeman had been taped across the mouth, but the tape had been removed and
taken from the scene. The more he killed, the more similarities would start to
appear. No matter how hard he worked at disguising his methods. The mouth area
would need to be swabbed for traces of adhesive at the post-mortem.
The left side of her face was badly bruised and swollen. Judging by the level
of bruising, the injury had been caused at least an hour before she died. He
guessed this was the first blow, used to incapacitate her. The killer hit her
as she rose up from her sleep, knocking her senseless. There was no blood or
cut around the injury. He probably used a gloved fist.
A small amount of blood on the floor, by the back of the victim's head, caught
his attention. Nothing more than a slight smear. He carefully moved around the
body to get a better look. He saw the telltale signs of a bleeding head injury.
The sticky hair. Not much, but a definite injury.
He scanned the room for an obvious weapon. He saw something, on the wall behind
the bed. He stood and bent towards it, careful not to step too close. There was
blood on the wall. Not much, but he was sure it would later be confirmed as the
victim's. The killer had slammed her head into the wall to make certain she was
unconscious, because he needed time to find the bindings and secure her.
And then what? She wasn't killed quickly. The bruises to her face, ankles,
wrists, neck: they all told the same tale of a slow, painful death. Was that
what the elaborate bindings were for? To torture her before killing her?
Spending time with them after the killing wasn't enough any more? The killer
had progressed to spending time with them before they died. Or was it merely
another attempt to muddy the waters and confuse those who hunted him?
Unlike Heather Freeman, this victim was a grown woman. Fully developed. She'd
been stripped naked and bound. Was she sexually abused? Raped while she was
still alive? He was sure she had been. Forensic tests would no doubt confirm
his hypothesis. Another progression, or another act of camouflage by the killer?
The longer he was alone in the room with Linda Kotler, the harder it was to
treat the murder scene like an exercise. Her pain and sorrow had begun to
penetrate his shield. The more he discovered, the closer, the more real the
murder became. It began to run in his head like film footage. Now he had almost
a full scene. The killer entering through the bathroom window, stalking through
the flat. He finds her in bed and looms over her. She awakes and sees him
standing there. A fist smashes into her face. Before she can recover, he lifts
her and smashes her head into the wall. She falls unconscious. She awakes. She
doesn't know how long she's been out for. She can't move. She feels the pain of
her bound limbs. Something around her neck stops her breathing properly. She
desperately needs air. Something over her mouth stops her calling out. Stops
her begging for her life. Then she feels him on her. He forces entry into her.
It hurts like nothing before. She blanks it out of her mind. Staying alive is
all that matters. But when he's finished, he doesn't leave. He spends time
torturing her. And then, finally, he strangles her to death.
Sean could hear her voice in his head. Pleading with the killer to leave her
alone. Pleading with him not to hurt her. Then pleading for her life. All
wasted. The gag meant he wouldn't have heard her. He would have liked to listen
to her begging, but he couldn't risk the noise.
A loud knocking on the bedroom door made him jump. Instinctively he reached for
the telescopic metal truncheon clipped to his waist belt. Then he looked to the
door and recognized DI Vicky Townsend standing there, grim-faced.
'They told me it was a bad one,' she said. 'Seems they weren't exaggerating.'
'Bad enough,' Sean replied.
DI Townsend made to cross the threshold of the bedroom. Sean shot a hand up,
palm outstretched towards her. 'Not dressed like that you don't.'
She looked herself up and down. She was wearing one of her favourite suits,
dark blue and tailored with two-inch heels to match. She feigned insult. 'This
is my best suit.'
'Then you wouldn't want me to take it off you and stick it in a brown paper bag
as evidence.'
'You would too, wouldn't you?' she asked. 'Well, you certainly haven't changed.'
'You wouldn't want me to.'
'No, probably not.'
DI Vicky Townsend waited for Sean outside the flat in the street. She watched
him pulling off the forensic suit and laughed a little as he carefully placed
the suit and shoe covers into evidence bags and sealed them. Ever the
professional, she thought. He'd always been the most meticulous detective she'd
worked with. Back in his street clothes, he approached her.
'How you been, Vicky?' he asked.
'Good, Sean. Good. Kids drive me mad, but you know.'
'I've got two myself now,' he told her. 'Two girls.'
'Still with Kate then?' She'd only met Kate a couple of times, briefly. Most
police liked to keep work and home very separate.
'Yeah,' Sean answered. 'She's good, you know. A good mother.'
'Good,' Vicky replied. They were both avoiding the obvious question. This was
Vicky's territory. It was up to her to challenge Sean, friend or foe.
'So what are you doing over here, Sean? Why's a DI from SCG South arriving at
my murder scene before I know about it?'
Sean looked a little sheepishly at Vicky. She hadn't changed much either. She
kept her auburn hair short and neat, for the practicalities of being a mother
rather than those of being a police officer. Her plain face was improved by
lots of laughter lines.
'I think this murder's linked to others,' he told her.
'Linked in what way? A drug war? Gangland?'
'If only. This is something else. A possible repeat offender.' He hated using
the term serial killer. It seemed to somehow glamorize tragedy.
'As in Yorkshire-Ripper-type repeat offender?' Vicky asked.
'I suppose so.'
'And you've been authorized to run a task force on this?'
'My superintendent is happy for me to take on any suspected linked cases. He'll
square it with yours in due course. In the meantime, I could do with all the
help I can get.'
'Such as?' Vicky asked.
'I need a few things to happen straight away.'
'Go on.'
'Check the mouth area for tape residue. I think her mouth was taped and the
killer took it away with him. Check the drainpipe at the side of the house, and
the bathroom window needs special attention. That's how he got in and out. And
I would like you to use my pathologist. He's the best in London and he's worked
one of the other victims. I can make the call to him and get him to look at the
body while it's still in the flat. After that he'll probably want it taken to
his own mortuary at Guy's Hospital.'
'All victims from West London should go to Charing Cross,' said Vicky. 'The
post-mortem should be performed by the pathologists for this area. There's a
lot of red tape around things like that. People get pissed off pretty quick if
you start to ignore protocols.'
'I understand, But the man who did this is still out there and he doesn't give
a shit about our red tape. He doesn't care if he kills in South London, East
London or West London. He just kills, and he'll do everything he can do not to
get caught. So why don't we stop helping the bastard and break a few rules
ourselves? Because if we don't, I reckon we've got about one or maybe two weeks
before I'll be standing outside some other flat in some other part of London
having the same conversation with some other DI.' He ended with a plea. 'Let's
not let that happen. Please.'
Vicky studied him for a couple of seconds. 'Okay,' she said finally. 'I have a
pretty good relationship with the pathologist for this area. I'll explain it's
an unusual situation.'
'Thanks. Now we need to get started. Time is not my friend here.'
'It never is,' she reminded him. 'And it never will be.'
Sally waited for the door to the Surbiton house to open. When it did she noted
the look of surprise on Paul Jarratt's face.
'DS Jones,' he said.
'Sorry to disturb you again,' she apologized, 'but would you believe it, I just
happened to be in the area when I suddenly remembered something I needed to
check with you.'
'Such as?' Jarratt asked, before remembering his manners. 'Please. Come in.'
Sally stepped inside and followed him to the lounge. 'I spoke with an old
colleague of yours, DC Graham Wright [?] only he's a DS now.'
'Graham?'
'I was doing some digging into Korsakov's history and was hoping to compare his
conviction fingerprints with marks found at our murder scene.'
'And?'
'They've gone missing. Seems they got up and walked out of Scotland Yard all by
themselves.'
'I wouldn't have thought that was possible.'
'No. Nor would I,' Sally agreed. 'DS Wright told me that he'd taken the prints
from the Yard at your request. Do you recall why you pulled the prints?'
'I seem to remember the prison where Korsakov was doing his time wanted them,
but I can't remember the details. Although I do remember giving the prints back
to Graham so he could return them.'
'And return them he did, at least according to Fingerprints's records.'
'Then I don't see how I can help you find them.'
'It's just that you requested them back in ninety-nine,' said Sally. 'Not long
before Korsakov was released from prison. That seems a little unusual.'
Jarratt laughed. 'DS Jones, everything to do with Korsakov was a little
unusual. However, I remember now. The prison needed the prints to copy on to
their records. They liked to keep fingerprints of prisoners they deemed to be
more dangerous than the norm. I suppose they consider it to be some sort of
deterrent.'
'Why would they wait until a few months before his release before deciding
Korsakov needed such a deterrent?'
'That, I cannot answer,' Jarratt told her. 'You would have to speak to the
prison.'
Sally sighed. 'Oh, I don't think there's any need for that,' she lied. 'At the
end of the day it still wouldn't explain how the prints went missing. Probably
just an administrative cock-up at Fingerprint Branch. I've wasted enough of
your time.'
'Not a problem,' said Jarratt.
They said their goodbyes and Sally made her way to her car. She drove a couple
of blocks before pulling over and retrieving the Korsakov file from her bag.
She flicked through it and found the number she was looking for. Then she
paused momentarily, remembering that Sean knew nothing of her investigation's
progress. Perhaps she should call him now, put him in the picture; but he had
so many other things on his mind it would be better to speak to him later. She
dialled and waited a long time before a military-sounding voice answered.
'Wandsworth Prison. What can I do you for?'
Sean and Vicky approached Barnes police station. They'd been outside the scene
for a while, briefing the forensic team and liaising with the coroner's office.
Sean had arranged to meet Sally at Barnes and update her. The police building
was as ugly as ever. They parked outside the four-storey construction, bright
red bricks in too-straight lines. It was hard to spot a window. When you did it
was blacked out.
Vicky led the way to her office. It was three times the size of Sean's and ten
times cleaner and more organized. Sally, having returned from Surbiton, was
waiting for them outside the office. Sean introduced her to Vicky and vice
versa. The two female detectives eyed each other with a little suspicion. Sean
felt it.
Vicky lifted a note she found on her desk. She looked at Sean. 'It's for you.
Your pathologist has arrived at the scene, a Dr Canning.'
'Good.'
'And we've traced a sister. The first detectives on scene, Simpson and Watson,
found it in her address book. She's already on the fast train up from Devon.
Squad car will pick her up at the station and bring her straight here. Should
be with us soon.'
'Parents?' Sally asked.
Vicky scanned the note. 'Yeah. They live in Spain. Retired. Apparently they'll
be here when they can get a flight. That won't be easy at this time of year. Do
you want to see the sister?'
Sean glanced across at Sally. 'Yeah. Why not?'
'I'll arrange it now. Meanwhile, why don't you tell me about your suspect? What
you got on him so far?'
'James Hellier,' Sean said. 'A wealthy, polished act. Works for a fancy firm of
financers in Knightsbridge. Self-confessed sado-masochist. Last night he took
our surveillance team on a run-around. He lost them about six p.m. He wasn't
picked up again until he got home, sometime after three a.m.'
Vicky raised her eyebrows. 'The man knows he's under surveillance and still he
travels to Shepherd's Bush and commits murder?'
'He can't stop himself,' Sean told her. 'The fact he knows he's under
surveillance probably only adds to his pleasure.'
'If you're so sure, let's arrest him, strip him, swab him and have forensics do
the rest,' said Vicky.
'We've tried that,' Sean explained. 'With the first murder. We found samples
matching him at the scene, but he had an answer for everything. Claimed to have
been having a long-standing sexual relationship with the victim. It was a waste
of time. We showed our hand too soon. Handed him the initiative.
'The second scene was different,' he continued. 'A young girl called Heather
Freeman, a runaway teenager. She was abducted and killed on waste ground out
near Dagenham. He cut her throat, but still the scene was left as clean as a
whistle. Nothing but a plain footprint.
'So we wait. If we get alien samples from the scene, we'll move and arrest
Hellier, but we wait until then.' Sean saw Vicky moving in her chair. He knew
what she was thinking. He held a hand up. 'I know,' he said. 'But trust me.
Hellier won't be contaminated with anything from the scene. Any clothing he
used will be destroyed by now.'
'You're absolutely certain of that?'
'No,' he replied. 'Not absolutely, but certain enough. I need something
irrefutable. Whether it's from one of the scenes or whether it's something
Hellier leads us to, I don't care. But I'm not going to have him dance circles
around me in an interview again. I need something damning.'
'It's your call, Sean, but don't forget the Stephen Lawrence inquiry. Those
guys were slaughtered for not making early arrests and seizing clothing for
forensics. If you go down, I go down with you.'
'No you won't,' Sean assured her. 'Make an official note of your objections.
I'll do the same, and then you're covered.'
'Hold on,' Vicky said. 'That's not what I meant.'
'I know it isn't,' Sean replied. 'But the branch I'm on is too thin for two
people. You register those objections. They'll be entered into my Decision Log.'
Vicky didn't argue further.
'I'd like to get a briefing out to the media today.' Sean changed the subject.
'You do it, Vicky. Keep my name out of it and don't mention the link to other
murders. Make it an appeal for public assistance. I want to see it in the
Evening Standard tonight.'
'Not a problem,' said Vicky. 'Their crime editor owes me a couple of favours.'
A knock at the door ended the conversation. Sean turned to see a detective he
didn't recognize. 'Sister's here, guv'nor,' was all he said.
Sean's hand hesitated as it rested on the handle of the witness room. Linda
Kotler's sister waited inside. Sally was with him, but he'd decided to do the
talking this time.
Telling someone a loved one had died was one thing. As devastating as that news
could be, it was nothing compared to telling them someone they loved had been
murdered. That news would shatter lives. The living would be forever haunted,
imagining the last moments of those now dead. The worst was telling parents a
child had been murdered [?] few marriages survived that burden. The parents see
their dead child every time they look at each other. Eventually they can take
no more reminding, no more torture, and push each other away.
Sean gently nudged the door open. He wanted her to see him entering. Debbie
Stryer looked up. She was younger than he'd expected, healthy and slightly
tanned. Her country complexion made Sean conscious of his own ghostly city
skin. She'd been crying. Her eyes were pink and rimmed bright red. She wasn't
crying now. It was a long trip from Devon. Had she run out of tears?
She began to stand before Sean or Sally could stop her. Her sore eyes darted
between them. Sean had seen that look on the faces of other victims' loved
ones. Fear, disbelief; desperate for information.
She spoke first. 'Hello. I'm Debbie Stryer. Linda's sister. Stryer's my married
name.'
Sean nodded that he understood. Sally held out a hand. When Debbie Stryer took
it, Sally gently pulled her hand forward and embraced it with both of hers.
'I'm Sally Jones. I'm a detective sergeant. I'll be helping to catch whoever
did this to your sister. I'm so sorry for your loss. Everybody tells us Linda
was such a good person.' Sally waited for a reaction. The tears began to fall
in heavy drops from Debbie's eyes. Real tears, like those of a child in pain.
'You need to know we'll catch the person who did this to Linda,' Sally promised
her.
Sean looked on in admiration. His plan to take the lead just hadn't happened.
If he tried to emulate Sally now, he would sound clumsy. He would introduce
himself and help explain any procedural matters Debbie might wish to know, but
little more.
He waited for Debbie Stryer to take her hand away from Sally. It was a long
wait. She was struggling to speak clearly through her grief.
'Thank you,' she told Sally. 'Thank you.' She turned to Sean. The awfulness of
the day was beginning to break her. She seemed to be visibly shrinking.
He held out his hand. She accepted it. 'I'm Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan,'
he said. 'I'll be in charge of this investigation.' He wanted to say more, but
couldn't find the right words.
Debbie almost immediately stopped crying. She looked at him strangely. This was
not what he had expected. He'd only introduced himself. Just said his name. He
couldn't have said the wrong thing already.
'She told me about you,' Debbie said. She couldn't help herself checking Sean's
left hand. She saw his wedding ring and almost smiled. 'She didn't tell me you
were married. That's typical of Linda.'
Sean and Sally simultaneously turned to each other, confusion and surprise
etched on their faces.
Sean had briefed DI Townsend on the meeting with Debbie Stryer. She had
listened almost without speaking. The only thing she said was that there must
have been some mistake. Sean knew better. He was being played. Hellier was
laughing at him.
But Hellier was taking an unnecessary risk in doing so. Showing off came with a
price. Debbie Stryer was able to tell them he had approached her sister close
to her home, sometime between eight and nine, maybe a little earlier. Christ,
he'd even had a conversation with her in the middle of the street. He was
beginning to think he was uncatchable. His sociopathic arrogance was matched
only by his violence.
Sean and Sally donned forensic suits and entered Linda Kotler's flat. It looked
very different to how Sean remembered it, forensic examiners going about their
work making it seem full of life. They went directly to the living room, where
Sean had seen the docking unit for Linda Kotler's home phone. He examined it
without touching and saw traces of aluminium powder on both the phone and the
base. 'Has this phone been dusted yet?' he asked a middle-aged woman, shapeless
in her paper suit. They all resembled workers in a nuclear power plant.
'Yes,' she answered. 'I did it.'
'Have the messages been listened to?' Sean asked.
'No. We'll do that back at the audio lab, for continuity.' But Sean had had
enough of waiting. He pressed the message playback button and hit the 'speaker
on' switch. 'I don't think you should be doing that,' the woman protested.
'DI Corrigan. I'm in charge of this investigation.'
The machine beeped long and shrill. A ringing tone could be heard. Linda
Kotler's voice filled the room. Everyone stopped and listened to the woman who
had been murdered only two plaster walls away.
They listened as the sisters chatted. This was it. Sean's heart was going
faster and faster. He knew what was coming, but he didn't want to hear it.
'And does this man have a name?' Debbie asked.
He could see Sally watching him out the corner of her eye.
'Sean,' Linda's voice said. 'Sean Corrigan.'
The middle-aged forensics officer was staring at him now. 'Haven't you got work
to do?' he snapped. She moved quickly away.
Sean stood and led Sally to the bedroom, where they found Donnelly wearing a
forensic suit. Sean also recognized the slim figure of Dr Canning, kneeling
over Linda Kotler's lifeless form. A number of labelled specimen jars and
exhibit bags were spread across the floor close by, within easy reach of the
pathologist. DC Zukov was doing his best to assist Canning.
'Anything interesting yet?' Sean asked.
Dr Canning was stony-faced. 'Inspector Corrigan. I shall assume you are
responsible for dragging me halfway across London.'
'Sorry, but I felt it was necessary.'
'Because you believe you have two connected murders. Sergeant Donnelly here
filled me in on the details.'
'Three murders,' Sean corrected him. The pathologist frowned. 'There was
another. The first of the series occurred about two weeks ago. Post-mortem's
already been done, but I'd like you to cast an eye over it.'
'Very well,' Canning replied. He went back to work. He talked as he examined
the body.
'So elaborate. Probably the most elaborate bindings and ligatures I've ever
encountered.'
'Why?' Sean asked. 'What's the purpose?'
Canning pointed to the knot on the stocking that ran along the victim's spine.
'That's a slip knot. My best guess at this time would be that it's a type of
harness.
'He positions the victim face down on the bed, then by pulling the slip knot up
and down he can control the tightness of the bindings around her throat and
legs simultaneously. Quite the instrument of torture.'
'Anything else?' Sean asked.
Canning scanned the body, wondering where to begin. 'You'll have to wait until
the post-mortem before it's confirmed, but I'm sure the cause of death will be
strangulation.' He pointed to the victim's neck. 'You can see the ligature's
sunk into the flesh quite deeply. Far more deeply than was necessary to kill
her. Quite a surprise the skin didn't break. There's other severe bruising too.
Probably all caused by the same ligature.' Canning took a deep breath. 'This is
a strong man you're looking for, Inspector.'
'What caused the other bruising around the neck?' Sean asked.
'I believe the killer repeatedly tightened the ligature around her neck, but
released it before death.'
'And before she passed out too,' Sean added.
'I wouldn't be able to say.'
'He wouldn't have let her pass out,' Sean assured him. 'He wouldn't have let
her escape into unconsciousness. Not even for a second.'
Canning raised his eyebrows. 'It would appear he had knowledge of auto-erotic
asphyxiation,' he continued. 'Popular with sado-masochists.'
Hellier's face flashed in Sean's mind.
'She was sexually assaulted, too. Raped both vaginally and anally by the look
of things. No immediate signs of semen or a lubricant. I suspect he used a dry
condom.'
Canning spoke to DC Zukov. 'Could you pass me that halogen lamp, please,
Detective?' Zukov passed him a metal-cased lamp that was big enough to be a
helicopter searchlight. Canning flicked the lamp on. It gave off a less bright
light than expected, but that wasn't its purpose. Held at the right angle, it
would allow the naked eye to observe otherwise near-invisible marks.
Fingerprints, footprints, hairs, tiny fragments of metal ...
Canning began to slowly sweep the light across the body. He started at the
lowest point. In this case it was the knees. The legs were still bent and tied
back so her feet almost touched her buttocks. The light moved to her back.
'Hello there.' Canning had found something. He froze the light on the victim's
back. Sean moved two steps closer.
'Careful,' Canning warned him. 'We haven't examined the entire area around the
body yet.'
Sean stopped and crouched down. He craned his neck to get a better view of the
victim's back. 'What is it?'
'If I'm not very much mistaken,' Canning said, 'it's a footprint.' He moved the
lamp to another angle. 'Yes. There.' The shoe-shaped bruise came more into
focus. 'Definitely a shoe mark. Pretty plain, though. No ridges or pattern.'
'A plain-soled man's shoe, between size eight and ten.'
'Yes,' Canning agreed. 'That would be my guess. I'll have it photographed back
at the mortuary. Should show up well enough.'
'Why would he do that?' DC Zukov asked the question, the disgusted look clear
on his face.
Sean knew why, but he wouldn't say. He knew Canning would work it out.
'He pressed down on her back with his foot while pulling the ligatures tighter.
That's probably when the other marks around the neck were caused.'
'Sick bastard,' Zukov said. 'Sick, evil bastard.'
No one disagreed.
Needing a break from the scene, Sally stood outside in the street smoking. She
doubted whether the male officers felt what she did for the victim. Did they
ever feel vulnerable and scared like a woman could? Did they ever consider how
intimidating a big man could be to a woman, just by standing a little too close
in a bar, at a bus stop? Probably not.
What must it have been like for Linda Kotler? Those last minutes, God forbid
hours, of her life. Totally overpowered by this man, this wild animal. Did the
male officers have any real idea how hundreds of thousands of women across
London would feel when details of the latest murder were released to the press?
Many would stop going out at night until he, the killer, was caught. Others
would rush to buy rape alarms, some would start to carry offensive weapons. All
would check the locks on their doors and windows. They would want their men
home before dark.
Sally would be no different. When she thought of Linda Kotler, the way she had
died, she couldn't help but see her own face on the body. She shivered
repeatedly. The cigarette helped a little.
God, she wished she had a lover. Someone special to share her life with, good
or bad. Her achievements and her failures. Her hopes and her fears. This wasn't
an easy job to do alone.
Her thoughts turned to Sebastian Gibran. Was that what he wanted? To be her
lover? When they'd first met his eyes had definitely rested on her for longer
than normal. She was pretty sure he would be married, but maybe that didn't
matter to him. How did she feel about being a mistress to a wealthy benefactor?
Was the whole 'something sensitive to discuss' a ruse to get her to meet him
for lunch? Wine and dine her? Seduce her? She couldn't deny she had found him
attractive: power and presence in a man were strong aphrodisiacs. She would
find out soon enough.
The cigarette grew hot between her fingers, snapping her back to the present.
She tossed it away and headed back inside the scene, all thoughts of pleasanter
things a distant memory.
Dr Canning moved the halogen lamp to the victim's head. He held a fine-toothed
comb in his other hand, the better to groom the victim's hair before the body
was moved. A tiny, vital piece of evidence could easily be lost when moving a
body. With the help of DC Zukov, he'd lifted the head very slightly and slipped
a three foot by three foot white paper sheet under her head. He began to comb
the hair slowly from the scalp outwards.
As he combed, a little of her hair fell on to the sheet. Then he saw it,
floating the short distance to the sheet. It landed gently. He dared not
breathe. He swapped the comb and lamp for a plastic evidence bag and a pair of
delicate metal tweezers. He moved the tweezers stealthily closer to the hair.
When he was no more than an inch or two away he suddenly moved quickly,
grabbing the hair in the small metal claw. He allowed himself to exhale.
Sean had been watching intently. As Canning held the hair above his head, Sean
could see it glistening. 'The victim's?' Sean asked.
'Definitely not,' Canning replied. 'Too long and too fair. And there's a root
on it. Your lab shouldn't have too much trouble getting DNA off it.'
Sean hid the excitement swelling in his chest, making it difficult to breathe.
The root of that hair could solve this murder on its own.
'What are the chances it belongs to our killer?' he asked.
'Unless there was another person here with the victim last night, I'd say it's
almost certainly the killer's,' Canning answered. 'This hair wasn't buried deep
in amongst the victim's. It was virtually sitting on top of hers, waiting to be
found.'
Sean was still concerned. He wanted it to be absolute. In court it would have
to be absolute. 'How could that be?' he asked. 'A hair, with a root, just lying
there?'
'Most likely caused by the killer removing a head cover of some description,'
Canning surmised. 'When you remove a hat or similar there is always a good
chance you'll pull a hair out, and often the root will come with it.'
'So you think he took his off?' Sean asked.
'Yes. Hairs like this, with roots attached, don't fall out naturally.'
'Why the hell would he take his head cover off?' Sean wondered.
'That I can't answer,' Canning said. 'But if he did take a head cover off, then
we've a good chance of finding more hair on the body or around it. That would
further diminish the possibility of an accidental transfer of hair from body to
body at some other point during the day at another location.' Sean understood
the importance of eliminating that possibility. Defence solicitors had become
skilled in arguing their way around forensic evidence.
The pathologist handed the evidence bag containing the hair to DC Zukov. He
handled it as if it was an unstable bomb. Canning picked up his lamp again and
began to examine the area around the body. He bent so low his face was almost
on the carpet. Sean hadn't blinked for minutes. He watched as Canning's eyes
suddenly narrowed. He saw him stretch out with his tweezers and snare the thin
fibre. Canning looked directly at him.
'It would seem the forensic gods are with us today, Inspector.'
'The same?' he asked.
'I would say so,' Canning answered. 'This has a root too. DNA will no doubt
confirm they come from the same person. If your killer's on the National DNA
Database, then it'll be case closed for you.'
'The man who did this isn't on the database,' Sean told him. 'But that doesn't
matter, because I know where to find his DNA.'
Canning looked a little confused. 'And where would that be?'
Sean answered: 'In his blood.'
Hellier hadn't been asked to see any clients in over two days. He no longer
cared. Only a few weeks before he would have taken steps to ensure the firm
weren't trying to cut him out. Now it was irrelevant. The firm had served its
purpose. He didn't need them any more.
It was almost 6 p.m. Only he, Sebastian Gibran and the perfect secretary
remained in the office. It was a shame he couldn't be alone with the secretary.
He would have liked to give the beautiful bitch a going-away present she
wouldn't forget, but he couldn't risk it with Gibran lurking inside his office.
Maybe sometime in the distant future their paths would cross again.
His mobile phone began to ring, the display telling him the number had been
withheld. Something told him he should answer.
'James Hellier speaking.'
'Mr Hellier. You are in great danger.' It was him again.
'Like I said earlier - you were supposed to meet me last night.' Hellier
sounded strong. He knew how to dominate. 'I don't like being fucked around.'
'I just want to help you,' the voice said. 'You must believe me.'
'Why?' Hellier demanded. 'Why do you want to help me? You don't know me.'
'Are you sure of that?' the voice asked.
Hellier didn't answer. He was thinking. The caller sensed his doubt.
'Corrigan. I can give you something, show you something that'll keep him away
from you. Keep them all away from you.'
'I'm not worried about the police.' Hellier sounded insulted. 'They can't touch
me.'
'Yes, they can,' the voice replied. 'Corrigan. He's not intending to take you
to court. He won't risk that.'
'What are you talking about?' Hellier began to sound more concerned. 'What do
you mean?'
'Meet me tomorrow night if you value your neck as much as I think you do.'
'Where?' Hellier asked.
'Somewhere in central London. I'll call you again tomorrow. At about seven. And
don't bring the police. They're still following you.'
'Wait a minute.' Hellier was too late. The line was dead.
The three unmarked cars drove down the middle of Bayswater Road. Traffic on
both sides yielded to their sirens and madly spinning blue lights. They were
heading towards Knightsbridge. Towards Hellier.
Sean had the forensic evidence he'd been praying for. The killer had made a
serious mistake, but it was too early to say anything other than that the hairs
appeared to be the same colour as Hellier's. Sandy.
Sally drove while Sean sat in the passenger seat. She broke the silent tension.
'Maybe we should process the hair first, guv'nor. Get its DNA profile and
compare it to the DNA database?' She had to shout to be heard above the
screaming sirens.
'Hellier's not on the DNA database, remember. He's got no previous,' Sean
argued.
'Maybe the hairs aren't Hellier's,' Sally persisted. 'We could process them
first and have them compared to profiles on the database. It could show they
belong to someone other than Hellier and then we'd have a cast-in-iron suspect.
And if we don't get a hit on the database, then it'll point more strongly
towards Hellier being our man.'
'Believe me,' he reassured her, 'Hellier's our man.'
'Then why don't we compare the samples to the ones we've already taken off
Hellier?' She referred to those taken in Belgravia police station at the
beginning of the investigation into the murder of Daniel Graydon. 'Then before
we even arrest him we'd know he killed Linda Kotler.'
'You know we can't use them,' Sean shouted above the noise inside the car.
'That was a different murder. We'd be slaughtered if we were ever found out.'
It was true. They couldn't use elimination samples taken from a suspect or
witness for one crime to prove they were involved in another. The suspect would
have to be told specifically what investigation their samples were being used
in, or they would be deemed to have been taken illegally.
'Maybe we could do it so no one would know?' Sally continued. 'Just do it so we
would know for sure it was Hellier. Don't tell anyone. Don't mention it in his
initial interview, keep it to ourselves, then do it legally. Take new samples,
whatever we have to, but at least we would know it was him. Interview him and
let him hang himself with lies.'
'No.' Sean shook his head. 'I can't risk that. We do it properly. It's Hellier,
I know it. There's no need to take shortcuts.'
Sally gripped the steering wheel harder and said nothing.
Sean tapped the number of the surveillance team leader into his mobile.
'DS Handy.' Sean could hear the radio chatter in the background.
'Don - Sean. Where's my man?'
'He's on the move,' said DS Handy. 'Just left his office on foot.'
'Heading home?' Sean asked.
'Heading to the Tube station.'
'We're on our way to you,' Sean told him. 'We're gonna take him out.'
'Wait a minute,' DS Handy said, 'he's hailing a cab.' There was a pause. 'Want
us to take him out for you?'
'No,' Sean said. 'Can you follow the cab?'
'Shouldn't be too difficult. Given that it's lime green with a giant packet of
Skittles on its side.'
'Follow it.' Sean made the decision. 'But keep me up to date. You follow him
and we'll follow you.'
'No problem.'
Sean could feel Sally looking between him and the road as she drove fast
through the traffic.
'I hope you know what you're doing, sir,' she said.
'There's more out there for us, Sally. This could be our last chance to let
Hellier lead us to something.'
'What more do we need? We have his hair. His DNA will match.' She was nervous
for both of them. Sean was taking a risk. Maybe one he didn't have to take.
'We have hairs,' Sean pointed out. 'Not necessarily Hellier's. And they bother
me. Too easy. All of a sudden he drops two rooted hairs right where we can find
them. Hellier's smart. Certainly smart enough to plant someone else's hair at
the scene. Imagine what that would do to any case against him. His defence
would have a fucking field day. We'd never even get it to court. If I think I
can get more, I'll take the chance.'
'Just because it was easy doesn't mean it's not right.'
Sean didn't answer her. She tried again.
'The law says that when we have evidence to arrest, we should arrest.' Sally
quoted the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. She was right and Sean knew it.
'Only until he goes home.' Sean sought to assure her. 'If he doesn't lead us to
something before then we arrest him.'
Sally exhaled and tried to concentrate on the road ahead.
'Bryanston Street. Marble Arch,' Hellier calmly told the cab driver, who gave a
nod and pulled away without speaking. Hellier tried to relax in the back, but
he knew he was being followed again and there were more of them this time [?]
he'd already counted fourteen. He could run around the Tube system, but there
was a chance they would have enough bodies to stay with him. He would try
something else.
The cab drove into Bryanston Street. Hellier tapped on the glass screen
designed to keep the drunks and psychotics at bay. 'Here's fine,' he said. The
taxi pulled into the kerb. Hellier poked a ten-pound note through the screen,
got out and walked away without waiting for change. He entered the Avis car
rental shop. He knew they were still watching.
Sean's phone rang, startling him. He was walking a tightrope that left him
feeling wired.
'DS Handy, guv. Looks like your boy's about to hire a car.'
'Problem?' Sean asked.
'No. I'd rather he was in a car than running around on foot.'
'Fine. We stay with him until I say otherwise.' Sean hung up. Sally said
nothing.
Hellier rented the largest and fastest car they had. He used the driving
licence in the name of James Hellier and paid with an American Express Black
Card in the same name. He would miss James Hellier.
The black Vauxhall slipped into Bryanston Street. The threelitre V-6 engine
gave a reassuring growl. Hellier began to relax a little as he listened to the
engine's cylinders gently thudding above the low revs.
At the end of the road he turned left into Gloucester Place and joined the
three lanes of traffic all heading north. He kept pace with the traffic, but no
more. He stopped carefully at traffic lights and showed no hurry to pull away.
He didn't need to check his mirrors. He knew they would be following, running
parallels along the adjacent streets, leap-frogging to the junctions ahead,
changing the cars immediately behind him as often as they could.
He turned left into the Marylebone Road and headed west. The traffic was
lighter than he had expected. That was unfortunate. He drove carefully.
He headed up and on to the Marylebone Flyover and joined the Westway, a small
motorway raised above the heart of West London designed to speed commuters to
the traffic jams of the M4 and M40 that inevitably awaited.
He began checking his mirrors constantly. They couldn't run parallels to him
now. As he drove above Paddington and Notting Hill, they had only one way of
staying with him: follow him along the Westway.
He began to make a mental note of all the cars ahead and behind him. Any one of
them could be the police: best to remember them all and assume the worst.
Effective counter-surveillance relied on the target assuming the worst.
He drove for about ten minutes before reaching his exit. The sign read
Shepherd's Bush and Hammersmith. He moved into the exit lane. He glanced in his
mirror. He saw several cars' indicators blinking, signalling they too would be
leaving the Westway. Any police cars that had been ahead of him were already
out of the chase. They would have to stay on the motorway until they could exit
at Acton, another four miles along. By the time they rejoined their colleagues,
he would be gone.
He left the Westway and followed the large slip road, the West Cross Route,
that took him to a major roundabout. Only at the roundabout did he make the
final decision where he would go. He could turn left along Holland Park, back
towards central London. Or straight over towards Earl's Court, along Holland
Road. No. He needed traffic. He turned right at the roundabout and drove past
Shepherd's Bush Green on his right and then turned left into Shepherd's Bush
Road, heading towards Hammersmith.
The three cars of the arrest team waited in Hyde Park for an update. Alone in
the middle car, Sean and Sally listened to the surveillance team's coded
chatter on the radio. It made little sense to them. They tried to work out
where the team could be, but it was no use. They relied on telephone updates
alone.
Sean's phone rang again.
'Smart lad, your boy,' DS Handy told him. 'He took the one route I didn't want
him to take. Over the Westway. He dropped off at Shepherd's. We've already lost
our two lead cars. They're trying to make their way back from Acton.'
'Do you still have him?' Sean's tension was palpable.
'Yeah. We've got plenty of coverage.' Handy sounded calm in comparison.
'Where is he now?'
'Approaching Hammersmith.'
'We're on our way,' said Sean. 'Travelling time from Marble Arch. Don't lose
him, Don. Whatever you do, don't lose him.'
Hellier cruised towards the chaotic one-way system of Hammersmith that was
little more than a giant roundabout. Four lanes of traffic looped around a
central shopping complex. The traffic was always a disaster.
The traffic lights immediately ahead were green, but he wasn't ready to enter
the one-way system yet. He stopped at the green light and studied his rearview
and side mirrors. The white van behind him beeped politely twice. When he
didn't move, it gave him a long angry blast of the horn. Still the lights were
green. Still he wouldn't move.
He could see the van driver in his mirror, leaning out of his window now,
shouting obscenities. Another blast on the van's horn. The van would be a
useful barrier between him and his pursuers, but it alone would not be enough.
The lights changed to red just as the van driver was climbing from his cabin,
malicious intent spread across his face. Hellier didn't wait for a break in the
traffic speeding across in front of him. He floored the accelerator. The rear
wheels of the big automatic gripped almost instantly and launched the car
towards the passing vehicles.
'Move. Move. Move,' DS Handy screamed at his driver. 'Stay with him. For fuck's
sake, stay with him. Shit.' He could see Hellier had pulled further ahead.
'You're losing him.'
'What's the fucking point?' the driver snapped back. 'We're burnt. He's wasted
us. We can't follow him driving like this and not show out.'
'Don't worry about staying covert,' Handy was shouting. 'Take the fucker out.
Take him out.'
Hellier had already turned right into Hammersmith Road. He gunned the Vauxhall
east, towards Kensington. Confused drivers jammed the road in front of the
surveillance cars. They couldn't move, trapped in traffic. Hellier was gone.
Sean spoke into his phone. He didn't say much, just the occasional word. 'How?'
'Where?' He paled noticeably the more he listened. 'Get back to Knightsbridge,
and cover his home too.'
He felt sick. Hellier was lost again. He'd made a bad decision, one he was
going to have to live with. He rubbed his reddening eyes hard. Exhaustion
threatened to overtake him. He looked at Sally. 'Damn it.'
'We'll find him,' Sally reassured him.
'Only if he wants us to,' he said. 'Only if he's still playing games with us.
With me.'
Hellier dumped the car and made absolutely sure he was alone before walking the
short distance to High Street Kensington underground station and descending
calmly to the platforms. He caught the first District Line train for two stops
to South Kensington. Out of the station, he walked quickly along Exhibition
Road, scanning the area for police. There were none. He turned right into
Thurloe Place and walked along the row of shops. He knew exactly where he was
going.
He looked through the window of Thurloe Arts, casting a knowledgeable eye over
the paintings that adorned the interior. It was more of a mini-gallery than a
shop, although he decided most of it was crap.
An old-fashioned bell rang above the door as he opened it. Almost immediately
the owner appeared from the back of the shop, breaking into a welcoming smile
when he saw Hellier.
'Mr McLennan. What a pleasant surprise. How are you?'
'I'm very well,' Hellier replied. 'How has life been treating you these past
few years?'
'I mustn't complain. Business is a little unpredictable, but could be worse.'
'Then I hope our arrangement has been of some financial assistance?'
'Indeed it has, sir,' the shopkeeper answered. 'Am I to take it that is the
purpose of your visit?'
'You are.'
'If you would be good enough to wait here a moment.'
Hellier nodded. The owner went to the back of the shop, returning a couple of
minutes later. He held the door to the rear area open.
'This way, please.'
Hellier walked behind the counter and into the rear of the shop where he was
led to a small windowless room lit by a single uncovered light bulb. There was
a table and one chair in the middle, surrounded by bare yellow walls. On the
table was a metal box, one foot by nine inches, a heavy combination padlock
hanging from its side. Hellier entered the room and found it just as he
remembered it from his previous visit, three years ago. The shopkeeper made his
excuses and left.
Taking a seat, Hellier examined the outside of the box. It seemed intact. He
studied the lock closely. It was untainted. No telltale metal scratch marks.
The dials remained at the settings he had left them on three years ago. He
pulled a pair of thin leather gloves from his pocket and slipped his hands into
the silk lining.
He turned the combination dials and pulled at the lock. Three years was a long
time. With a little effort it popped open. He wiggled it free from the box and
placed it carefully on the table.
He lifted the lid up as if opening a precious jewellery box. He removed an
object wrapped in a white cloth and placed it next to the lock. He would look
at it later. He needed to check something else first.
He lifted a heavy parcel from the box. It was wrapped in several yellow
dusters, which he patiently unfolded as if peeling back the petals of a
tropical flower. The black-grey metal inside shone. He was pleased he'd taken
the effort to oil the Browning 9mm automatic pistol before locking it away.
He'd made plenty of enemies over the years. He doubted they could find him, but
just in case they did, he had insurance.
He checked the two magazines: both held a full load of thirteen 9mm
high-velocity bullets. They had been harder to obtain than the gun itself.
Squaddies were happy to sell weapons stolen from poorly guarded armouries, but
for some reason they were reluctant to sell the bullets to go with them.
Hellier pulled at the back of the gun. The top slide glided backwards and
smoothly cocked the weapon. He squeezed the trigger. The hammer hit the firing
pin with a reassuring metallic click. Satisfied, he pushed one of the magazines
into the butt of the gun. The other he slid into his inside jacket pocket. He
tucked the pistol into the small of his back, held in place by his belt.
He opened the other parcel. He laughed at the items inside. A dark brown wig
with eyebrows to match. A moustache, no beard. A pair of prescription
spectacles. He tried them on. They affected his eyesight, but he could see
through them. He picked up the tube of theatrical make-up glue. He squeezed a
drop on to his left index finger and rubbed his thumb and finger together. The
glue was still good. He rolled the parcel back in the cloth and stuffed it into
his trouser pocket as he stood.
He shut the box and replaced the padlock. He set the numbers as he had found
them and left the room. The shopkeeper was waiting for him.
'Everything as it should be?' he asked.
'Yes. Everything was fine,' Hellier replied. 'Tell me, is there a sports shop
near here?'
Sally and the others had decided to retreat to the one pub they ever used,
close to Peckham police station. The landlord was only too happy to be running
a 'police pub'. It all but guaranteed his premises remained free of trouble,
except for the occasional bust-up between coppers. And that was always dealt
with in-house so no black marks went against his licence.
Sally's phone rang.
'Sally Jones speaking.'
'DS Jones, I'm Prison Officer English, from Wandsworth Prison.'
Sally hadn't expected the prison to call her out of hours. 'You have something
for me?'
'Your inquiry into a former prisoner: Korsakov, Stefan, released in 1999. You
wanted to know why we requested his fingerprints?'
'Yes.'
'We made no request for his fingerprints from Scotland Yard.'
'Are you positive?'
'Absolutely. Our records are correct. There's no mistake.'
'No,' Sally said, more to herself than anyone. 'I'm sure there isn't. Thank
you.' She hung up.
Donnelly appeared next to her. 'Problem?'
'Someone's been lying to me.'
'About what?'
'Never mind,' she said. 'We'll talk about it tomorrow. Right now I need another
drink.'
Hellier found the small sports shop easily enough. He selected a dark blue Nike
tracksuit, the plainest he could find. He added a white T-shirt, white Puma
training shoes and a pair of white socks to his basket. He asked for the items
to be placed in separate plastic bags. He had been an easy customer who paid
cash. The assistant was more than happy to lavish him with extra plastic bags.
He left the shop, headed back to the Tube station and caught a train to
Farringdon. He didn't have to search long to find what he wanted. A bar where
men and women in suits mixed easily enough with others wearing casual clothes,
even tracksuits.
He ordered a stiff gin and tonic from the bar. Gin, lots of ice, lime not
lemon. The barman was good. The long drink both refreshed him and gave his
brain a nice alcoholic kick, without affecting his clarity of thought - his
control.
Hellier sat and familiarized himself with the layout of the bar. Satisfied, he
went to the men's toilet, entered a cubicle and shut the door. It was fairly
solid. That was good. He looked up at the window. It was quite high. If he
tried to climb out of it, he would be seen. It was probably sealed shut anyway.
He checked the toilet cistern. It was low on the wall. That was good. He lifted
the lid from the cistern. Then he emptied the contents of the plastic bags on
to the toilet seat, taking the gun from his belt and the spare magazine from
his jacket pocket. He placed them on the tracksuit. Next he took the training
shoes out of the box and wrapped them, the T-shirt and the socks in the
tracksuit making a tight parcel; the shoes flattened to little more than the
width and thickness of the soles, the light material of the T-shirt and
tracksuit folded to almost nothing. He placed them in one of the smaller
plastic bags and tied a knot at the open end. He placed that bag inside another
and fastened it with a tight knot.
At the last minute he recalled that the man who described himself as a friend
would be calling on his mobile phone tomorrow at seven. He pulled the phone
from a pocket and looked at it pensively. If the police were waiting for him,
they would surely seize the phone. They always did. It was the only way he had
of allowing the 'friend' to contact him. He decided he couldn't take the risk,
but no matter what, he would have to recover the phone before 7 p.m. the next
day. Separating the phone from its battery, he undid the plastic bags and
dropped both phone and battery in. Then he wrapped and knotted the bags again.
Hellier was about to place the plastic bag in the toilet cistern when he
stopped short. The gun was too big a prize to risk. Maybe he should just check
into a hotel for the night instead of going home; that way he could stay hidden
until it was time to meet the man from the phone calls. He shook his doubts
away. He would go home. The police would undoubtedly be waiting for him there,
but it wasn't as if they were going to arrest him. What did they have? Nothing.
If they had, they would have arrested him earlier, instead of trying to follow
him. And even if they did arrest him, so what? He would be out in time to make
the meeting and he would know whatever the police were thinking too. It was an
uneven match. Every time the police moved against him they had to tell him what
they knew. The laws of the land demanded it. This was a fair and just country.
He, on the other hand, had to tell them nothing. And if they were stupid enough
to try and follow him again after today, which he absolutely believed they
were, then he had made plans for that too.
All doubt gone, he smiled to himself and tucked the plastic bag containing the
clothes and pistol neatly into the toilet cistern, expertly packing it around
the working parts as he'd practised hundreds of times before, ensuring enough
water was allowed into the small tank. He flushed once to make certain it still
worked and watched the cistern fill again. Satisfied, he replaced the lid and
left the bar carrying the largest of the plastic bags containing only the empty
shoebox. He would squash it flat and dump it in a bin on his way to the
underground station and home.
It was almost ten p.m. on Thursday. Sean sat alone in his office. The inquiry
room was dark and quiet. The rest of the team had adjourned to a nearby pub,
where they would be deep into analysing what had gone wrong. They would argue
Hellier should have been arrested earlier, that it had been an unnecessary risk
to try and follow him around London on the off-chance he would lead them to
some clinching evidence. Sean's absence from the pub would be noticed, but it
would be welcome too. They could speak their minds better if he wasn't around.
He unlocked his bottom desk drawer and pulled out an unopened bottle of dark
rum and a heavy, shallow glass. The rum had been in there for months. He only
kept it out of a sense of tradition. He had rarely felt the need to use it,
until now.
He poured an inch of rum into the glass and rolled it around. He put the glass
tentatively to his lips and drank a quarter of it in one go. It was a lot for
him. The back of his throat burned painfully, but he enjoyed the warmth of the
liquid.
He reached forward for his desk phone. He needed to call Kate. His ringing
mobile stopped him. He answered sounding tired and dispirited.
'Guv. It's Jean Colville.' DS Jean Colville was running the relief surveillance
team, brought in to cover while DS Handy's team regrouped and licked their
collective wounds. 'Thought you'd like to know your man just arrived home like
nothing happened.'
Sean sprang to his feet as if suddenly standing to attention. 'What's he
wearing?' he asked.
'Suit and tie,' Jean answered.
'How's he look?'
'Fine. Normal I guess.' She sounded puzzled.
'Okay,' Sean said. He checked his watch. Damn. Half his team would be
semi-drunk by now, the other half would have headed off towards whichever
corner of London they lived in. Had there been time since he went missing for
Hellier to find a victim, kill and return home as if nothing had happened? Sean
doubted it. No, this evening he'd been up to something else. Better to let the
team rest for a while. What more could he lose?
'I need you to keep him under obs tonight,' he told DS Colville. 'I'll be there
in the morning to take him out. Hopefully he won't move again until then.'
'No problem, guv,' Jean answered. 'If he moves, I'll let you know.'
'Thanks.' Sean hung up, waited a few seconds and called Sally. When she
answered he could hear she was in the pub.
'Sally. It's Sean.'
'Please tell me you're not still at work.' She sounded sober enough.
'Contact Donnelly and the rest of the team.' He knew Donnelly at least would be
close by. 'Six a.m. briefing back here. We're taking Hellier out before he
leaves for work.'
'Before he leaves for work?' she asked. He could hear the confusion in her
voice. 'He's gone home?'
'Don't ask me why,' Sean replied. 'I don't know what he's up to, but we're
going to finish this tomorrow.'
The light shining through the front door window was not a good sign. It was
past eleven and he'd expected all to be quiet and dark inside. He turned the
key as quietly as he could and carefully pushed the door open. The scent of the
family who lived inside pleasantly assaulted his olfactory system. As he
stepped inside he could hear the television quietly playing in the lounge. He
followed the sound. Kate lay on the sofa, and Louise lay across her chest,
sleeping fitfully.
'What is she doing out of bed?' Sean asked his wife.
She shushed him before answering. 'She has a temperature. Something going
around at nursery.'
'Is she all right?'
'She'll be fine. I've given her some Calpol. I just hope she doesn't give it to
Mandy. I could do without having to look after two sick children.' Louise
stirred on Kate's chest.
'If it comes to that, I'll take some time off work and help out.'
'Take some time off work?' she whispered. 'How do you plan on doing that?'
'We've had a break in the case. Things should start happening pretty quickly
now. With any luck we'll be able to charge our suspect and wrap things up
within a few days.'
'And then, no doubt, you'll inherit another case and we'll be back to the same
old routine.'
'It's late and I have an early start tomorrow,' he said. 'This is probably not
a good time to discuss this. You're tired and stressed. Having this
conversation won't help.'
'Yes. You're right. I am tired and stressed, as you would be if you'd been at
home alone with two young children, one of whom is sick.' She managed to keep
her voice down, despite her frustration.
'What do you want me to do, Kate? I get away from work as soon as I can, but
sometimes it's not possible to walk away at five o'clock. I don't have that
luxury. I don't do a normal job.'
'It's this damn Murder Squad. It's too unpredictable. I never know when I'm
going to see you. When the kids are going to see you. I can't plan anything
like normal people do. When was the last time we did anything as a family? When
was the last time we had a decent holiday? When was the last time you helped
bath the kids, Sean? You know, I work too. Sometimes I need you to be here to
help out.'
'I want to be here,' he told her. 'But I don't know how I can make things
easier. I don't sell fucking shoes, Kate. I solve murders. I stop people who
kill. I can't do this job with one hand tied behind my back.'
There was a silence before Kate replied: 'Is that what we are to you, Mandy,
Louise and I? Some kind of handicap you'd be better off without?'
'No. No,' he insisted. 'That's not what I meant. You know that's not what I
meant, but I need my mind to be clear if I'm going to have any chance of
catching these people quickly. If I'm constantly worrying about getting home
for bathtime or dinner, I can't think properly. I can't think the way I need to
think. You and the kids have no place in that world, believe me.'
'But you're missing them, Sean. Before you know it, they'll be leaving home and
you won't be able to get that time back. It'll be gone.'
'Do you want me to leave the police? Is that what you're saying?'
'No,' she assured him. 'That's the last thing I want. Doing what you do makes
you what you are. You need to be a cop. It's a calling for you, not a job. But
maybe it's time to consider doing something else in the police. Something you
can have more control over. Something more predictable. Get away from all this
... death.'
'But it's what I'm best at. Where I can do things no one else can.'
'You've done your bit, Sean. You've given enough of yourself. No one is going
to think less of you if you ask for a change.'
Sean glanced at his watch and sighed. 'Maybe you're right. I'll start asking
around to see what's on offer, but it'll take a while. They won't let me go
until they've found a replacement.'
'I understand that,' she said. 'And I don't want you to rush into anything
either. Just think about it. That's all I ask.'
19
None of it matters to me any more. The police. My wife. My children. Staying
here, in London. I always knew it would only be a matter of time before I had
to move on, but it's not quite come to that yet. There's one further game to
play.
My target has been selected. Nothing can save them now. It will happen exactly
as I have pictured it. But don't feel sad for them: be sad I have not chosen
you. Once my hand touches them, they'll be more in death than they had ever
been in life.
The next will be the most difficult and therefore the best yet. It will be
worth the risks. Besides, I've made allowances. The police are drinking from a
mirage. I will let them fill their bellies with sand.
I wish I could reveal myself to you. Let you share my secrets. Unfortunately I
cannot. For the moment, all I can give you is the gift of my nature.
I would like nothing better than to put my name to my work, but so few of you
would be capable of understanding. You should sing my praises as a genius, but
instead you would put me in a cage. How your psychiatrists and psychologists
would like that. They could waste their time poking and prodding me. Would they
tear up their textbooks when I tell them I had a happy childhood? That I never
bit my classmates or tortured animals? Never killed the family cat and buried
it in the woods?
I don't hear voices in my head. I won't claim God ordered me to kill. I'm not a
disciple of Satan. I don't believe in either. I don't hate you. You are simply
nothing to me.
I scored well in my exams. Took part in school plays. Played hockey and cricket
for my county. Was the favourite brother to my sisters, son to my mother and
father. I went to a famous university and obtained a degree in accountancy. I
was admired by my peers and respected by my tutors. I had several girlfriends,
some serious, some not. I got drunk on Fridays and felt sick most Saturdays. I
took my washing home for my mother once a fortnight. I was popular.
None of it meant a thing.
I'm not sure how old I was when I first felt it. Maybe five, maybe younger. I
constantly checked the mirror. How could I look the same when clearly I was so
different? I was both scared and exhilarated. So young to be absolutely alone.
So young to be freed from the mediocrity and pointlessness of a normal life.
Despite my age, I knew not to mention it to anyone. Not to talk to anyone about
it. I had to bide my time. Fit in. Imitate those around me. I did very well in
school, but was careful not to excel. Not to stand out. I realized I was just a
chrysalis that protected the embryo within.
The years passed painfully slowly. Still I resisted the temptation to explore
my growing strength. I waited patiently. I didn't know when the time would
come, only that it would.
As I grew older, I continued to gather the trinkets of normal life. A job. A
wife. A house. Children. They were my sheep's clothing. My smiling mask. And
all the while I was waiting.
Then, a few months ago, I awoke. I looked in the mirror and knew the moment had
arrived. To everyone else I seemed the same, but not to myself. A new creation
stared back upon itself. At last.
My first instinct was to slaughter my family, but I quickly realized I wasn't
strong enough yet. I had only just been born. I was still covered in Nature's
afterbirth. I still needed their protection. But with each visit I grow
stronger and stronger. I become more complete, what I am meant to be: not a
man, but a man above men. A different evolutionary strain of man. To you,
almost a god.
20
Friday morning
Sean had kept the briefing quick and simple. They would drive from Peckham to
Hellier's house in Islington. Sean would arrest him. Sally would direct another
search of the house. He knew the audience of bleary-eyed detectives wouldn't be
able to absorb much information at 6 a.m. [?] most looked like they'd opted for
one last drink instead of stocking up on the most precious commodity to a
detective: sleep. If they felt tired now, it would be worse for them later.
Donnelly banged on the front door of Hellier's Georgian terrace. The thick
black paint shimmered like water with each knock. Sean and Sally were right
behind him. The rest of the arrest team stood further back. No one expected
Hellier to fight.
James Hellier appeared in front of them. He was almost fully dressed and ready
to leave for work. He looked good. Fit and strong. Immaculately groomed. He was
casually threading a gold cufflink through his sleeve.
Sean stepped forward, and before he spoke he could smell Hellier's expensive
cologne. It seemed to take Hellier a second to recognize him. When he did, he
began to smile.
Sean held his warrant card close to Hellier's face. He didn't back away.
'James Hellier. I'm Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan, these other officers are
with me.'
'Please, Inspector,' Hellier cut in. 'There's no need for introductions here. I
think we all know each other.'
Sean wanted to hit him. If Hellier didn't stop smiling, he thought he probably
would. Instead he pushed him back into the house and spun him around to face
the hallway wall. He could see Elizabeth Hellier coming down the stairs.
'Who is it, James?' she called out. 'What's going on?' Her panic growing.
'Nothing to worry about, darling,' Hellier called up to her. 'Just call
Jonathon Templeman and tell him I've been arrested again.' He turned to Sean.
'I am being arrested, aren't I, Inspector?'
Sean pulled Hellier's arms behind his back and clipped a handcuff tightly round
each of his wrists. 'This time you're mine,' Sean whispered into Hellier's ear.
He stepped back and spoke so everyone could hear, especially Hellier's wife.
'James Hellier, I'm arresting you for the murder of Linda Kotler.'
Hellier was still smiling. 'What?' He didn't attempt to hide his disdain. 'This
is pathetic. I've never heard of the woman.'
'You do not have to say anything unless you wish to.' Sean spoke over Hellier's
protests. 'But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned
something which you later rely on in court.'
'Tell me, Inspector,' Hellier was almost shouting, 'are you going to arrest me
for every crime you can't solve?'
'Anything you do say may be used as evidence,' Sean continued.
Hellier craned his neck so he could see Sean over his right shoulder. 'You're a
damn fool. You've got nothing on me.' His smiling face and sweet breath made
Sean feel nauseous.
'Who are you?' Sean asked him. 'What the fuck are you?'
Hellier's grin only broadened. He spat the words into Sean's face:
'Fuck you.'
Sean peered through the spy hole into Hellier's cell. The smug bastard was
sitting bolt upright on his bed, as if in some kind of a trance. If only there
were some way to find out what he was thinking. Sean moved away from the cell
door and headed back to his office. He would interview Hellier when his
solicitor arrived.
He sauntered into the inquiry office. The team sensed his mood. It transferred
to them. Sean had the upper hand now.
'Any news from the lab, Stan?' Sean shouted across the office.
'Three days for a DNA match, guv,' Stan called back. 'Two, if we get lucky.
They'll need our suspect's samples by midday if they're to have any chance of
doing it that fast, but it'll only be an initial comparison which won't give us
a definitive match. A full comparison and definitive match will take a week.
Minimum.'
'Not good enough,' Sean replied. 'Call the lab back and tell them one in forty
thousand isn't good enough. I need better odds than that and I need them by
this time tomorrow at the latest.'
The phone in Sean's office was ringing when he entered. He snatched it up. 'DI
Corrigan.'
'Morning, sir. It's DC Kelsey, from SO11 telephone subscribers' checks. You
left some coded numbers with me a while ago. I said I'd have a play with them.'
'Go on.'
'Well, I worked out the code,' DC Kelsey said matter-of-factly. 'It was
relatively simple, but effective.'
'Have you run the subscribers' checks too?'
'Yes. Some are overseas numbers, so we don't have them back yet. I'll email
what I have across to you. Be warned, there's a fair few to go through.'
'Thanks. And good job,' Sean said warmly. 'Let me know when the overseas
numbers come back.'
'No problem.'
'And thanks again.'
Sally appeared at his office door. 'Hellier's brief's here,' she announced.
'They're in consultation.'
'Good. When they're ready, you can help me interview.' Sally made a show of
checking her watch. 'You need to be somewhere?' he asked.
'As a matter of fact, I have a lunch appointment today. I was hoping Dave could
do the interview with you.'
'Lunch appointment?' Sean sounded surprised.
'It's not what you think. I'm supposed to be meeting Hellier's boss, Sebastian
Gibran. His idea. I can only assume he wants to discuss Hellier.'
Sean studied her in silence for a while. 'I'm not sure about this, Sally,' he
said. 'These people look after their own. I doubt he wants to help us. Unless
he has some other motivation for meeting you.'
'Such as?'
'You know what I mean.'
'I guess you never know your luck.'
Again Sean studied her for a while. 'Okay. Meet him. See what he has to say.'
'There's something else too,' Sally continued. 'Remember the suspect Method
Index turned up - Stefan Korsakov.'
Sean shrugged his shoulders. He thought that little problem had been dealt
with. 'Yes.'
'I've been trying to put it to bed, but it hasn't been that easy.'
'In what way?'
'His conviction prints should be at the Yard, only they're not.'
'Borrowed?'
'The original investigating officer told me the prison holding Korsakov had
requested the prints, only I checked with them and they didn't.'
'So he's lying to you. Any idea why?'
'Not yet.'
'Do you want to get Ethics and Standards involved?'
'Maybe,' Sally answered. 'But maybe we should start treating Korsakov as a
viable suspect, until we know for sure he isn't?'
'Fine,' Sean agreed. 'But if he does start looking like a reality, you tell me
straight away. Don't go running off solo, trying to be Cagney without Lacey.'
'I won't. I promise.'
Sally turned on her heels and headed out of the office. 'By the way,' Sean
called after her, 'have a nice lunch.'
Hellier and Templeman sat close together in the interview room that served as
their private consultation room.
'I need to be out of this fucking dungeon by six at the latest,' Hellier told
him. 'No excuses, Jonathon. You have to get me out.'
'It's difficult to make that promise,' Templeman answered nervously. 'The
police won't tell me much. Until I know what they've got, I can't be expected
to judge our position.'
'Our position?' Hellier asked. He put his hand on Templeman's thigh and
squeezed hard. Templeman winced. 'No matter what, you'll be walking out of
here. It's me they want to nail to the wall. Keep that in mind.'
Hellier released his grip and gently laid a hand on Templeman's shoulder. He
knew the man was scared of him. 'I know you'll do your best.' He spoke softly.
It only added to his menace.
Templeman swallowed his fear and spoke. 'Before we can even think about bail,
we have to prepare for the interview. If they've re-arrested you, they must
have something. If you know what that could be, you need to tell me now. They
want to start the interview as soon as they can, but they're only telling me
the minimum they're legally obliged to. You have to help me to help you. We
don't want to walk into a trap. You should answer everything "no comment".'
Hellier could barely disguise his contempt. 'Trap! You think they're clever
enough to trap me? They've got nothing, and Corrigan knows it. He's trying to
make me panic. Well, let him do his worst. You just keep your mouth shut and
try and look professional. Let me do the talking and follow my lead. If
Corrigan wants to play, fucking let him. Tell them we're ready to be
interviewed.'
Sean began the interview with the usual formalities, Hellier responding with a
nod when asked if he understood the caution and his other legal rights. He
nodded again when Sean repeated that he had been arrested for the suspected
murder of Linda Kotler. His face was expressionless.
In an effort to gain credibility with Hellier, Templeman immediately went on
the offensive: 'I would like it recorded that it has been almost impossible for
me to properly instruct my client, as the investigating officers have told me
nothing about the allegation. Nothing about any evidence they may have that
indicates my client could in any way be involved in this crime.'
Sean had been expecting as much. 'The allegation is one of suspected rape and
murder. It occurred less than thirty-six hours ago. I'm sure your client will
be able to answer my questions without being given prior knowledge.' Sean
waited for a protest. None came. 'I'll keep the questions simple and direct.'
He and Hellier locked eyes across the table, then Sean launched into the
interrogation: 'Did you know Linda Kotler?'
'No,' Hellier answered.
'Was that a no comment or a no?'
'That was a no. I don't know anyone by the name of Linda Kotler.'
'Have you ever been to Minford Gardens in Shepherd's Bush?' Sean was trying to
shut him in.
'I don't know. Maybe,' Hellier answered.
'Maybe?'
'I've been to Shepherd's Bush, so maybe I've been there.'
'Minford Gardens?' Sean repeated.
'Wherever.'
'Have you ever been to number seventy-three Minford Gardens?'
'No.'
'Sure?'
'Positive.' Hellier sounded bored.
'Are you absolutely sure?' Sean had to be precise. Any ambiguity now would be
exploited later by the defence. Hellier didn't answer. 'I'll take that as
confirmation. But you're lying. You have been there,' Sean continued.
Hellier gave no reaction other than raising one eyebrow slightly. Sean noticed
it.
'You met Linda Kotler. You met her the same night you killed her.'
'Really, Inspector,' Templeman jumped in. 'If you have evidence to support your
allegation that my client was involved, then why don't you just say so and tell
us what it is. Otherwise this interview is over.' Sean ignored him. Throughout
the interruption he maintained eye contact with Hellier.
'Where were you the night before last?' Sean asked.
'You mean you don't know?' Hellier tormented him. 'All those policemen
following me and you have to ask me where I was. How galling that must be for
you.'
'No games.' Sean was trying to keep the pace going. 'Where were you?'
'That's my business,' Hellier snapped.
Good. His calm was breaking.
'And now it's mine,' said Sean. 'Who were you with?'
'No comment.'
The questions and answers came quickly. Templeman kept on the lookout for a
break, a chance to object, but he knew neither Sean nor Hellier would listen to
him. This was between the two of them. Personal.
'If you've got an alibi, you'd better give it now,' Sean told him.
'I don't have to prove a damn thing,' Hellier retorted.
'You weren't at home.'
'Your point?'
'And you weren't at work.'
'So?'
'So between seven p.m. and three a.m. the next morning, where were you? During
the time Linda Kotler was murdered, where were you?' Sean's voice was rising.
Hellier fought back. 'Where were you, Inspector? That's what people will really
want to know. Would she be alive now if you'd done your job properly? You're
desperate and it shows. You stink of fear. It's blinded you. What have you got?
Nothing but theories.
'So you don't know where I was the night this woman was killed. That proves
nothing.' Hellier leaned back, satisfied.
'How long did you watch her for?' Sean suddenly asked. 'For a week, like you
did with Daniel Graydon, or was it longer? Did you spend days and days
fantasizing about killing her, the images in your mind growing ever more vivid
until you could no longer wait? You followed her home, didn't you, James? Then
you watched her windows, waiting for the lights to go out. And when they did,
you waited until you were certain she was asleep before you scrambled up the
drainpipe and climbed through her bathroom window. Then you knocked her
unconscious, tied her in your favourite bondage position and raped and
sodomized her. And when you were finished, you strangled her - didn't you?'
Hellier made as if to answer, but Sean held up his hand to stop him as the
images in his mind revealed further details. 'No wait, I'm wrong - you didn't
strangle her after you'd raped her. You killed her while you were still inside
her, didn't you? Her death and your climax happening simultaneously - that's
how it had to be for you, wasn't it? Wasn't it?'
Hellier's eyes raged inside his stony face, the muscles in his cheeks visibly
flexing as he fought to keep control. Finally he spoke. 'That's a nice little
story you've cooked up, Inspector. But it proves nothing - nothing whatsoever.'
'You're right.' Sean sounded humble. 'It doesn't prove a thing. But these
will.' He slid a copy of a form across the table. 'Item number four,' Sean
said. 'Item number four should be of particular interest to you.'
Hellier scanned the list of items submitted to the forensic laboratory. He saw
that item number four was two hairs. He shook his head as if he failed to
realize their importance. 'This concerns me how?'
'We need samples of your hair and blood, for DNA comparison,' Sean informed him.
'You've already taken samples.'
'I can't use those. This is a different case. I need fresh samples.'
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.
Featherstone 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 surprised him as he clattered through the door. 'You got a
minute?' He gestured towards 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, 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, not me. 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.
Sally entered Che shortly after 1 p.m. and immediately spotted Gibran seated at
a table, sipping a glass of amber-coloured 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 behaviour 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 ended 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 light-hearted, '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 any more.
The fact 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.'
Sally returned the toast with a cautious smile. 'To us.'
'It must be difficult,' said Gibran, suddenly cryptic.
'What must?'
'Learning how to use all that power you have without abusing it. I mean, I meet
a lot of people who truly believe they're powerful, but power through money and
influence has its limits. Being a police officer, to have the power to
literally take someone's human rights away from them, to take their freedom
from them - now that's real power.'
'We don't remove people's human rights; we can only temporarily remove their
civil rights,' Sally explained.
'All the same,' Gibran continued, 'it must be very difficult.'
'Maybe, at first. But you get used to it, and before long you don't even think
about it.'
'I'm guessing it can make relationships with men very difficult. So many are
intimidated by powerful women. We like to think the power is always with us, so
to be involved with a cop would be, I guess, challenging.'
'And are you?' Sally asked. 'Intimidated?'
'No,' Gibran answered, his face as serious as Sally had seen him. 'But then
again, I'm not like most men.'
Sally looked at him for as long as she could without speaking, trying to read
his thoughts. Gibran broke the silence.
'One thing that's always fascinated me,' he continued, 'is how people who seem
to have been born to kill somehow find each other, as if they can recognize
their own kind when they meet them: Hindley and Brady, Venables and Thompson,
Fred and Rosemary West, and God knows how many others. How do they find each
other?'
'I wouldn't know,' Sally answered. 'That's my boss's field of expertise. He's a
bit more instinctive than most.'
'DI Corrigan? Interesting,' Gibran said. 'When you say he's instinctive, what
do you mean?'
'Just that he seems to know things. He sees things that no one else can see.'
Sally suddenly felt uncomfortable discussing Sean with an outsider, as if she
was somehow betraying him. Gibran sensed her mood.
'An interesting man, your DI Corrigan. Do you think perhaps it's his dark side
that makes him so good?'
Sally was impressed. It struck her that many of the same qualities she saw in
Sean were present in Gibran. She decided that if Sean could ever get beyond his
preconceived ideas of Gibran, he would probably like him.
'DI Corrigan's a lot of things, but I've never seen anything you would call a
dark side. It's more a question of him being willing and able to search for
answers in those dark places the rest of us are too afraid to go, in case we
see something about ourselves we don't like.'
Gibran nodded his understanding and approval. 'It's because he's prepared to
accept his responsibilities,' he said. 'And it sounds as if we have more in
common than either of us understood. Perhaps when this is all over and he sees
me for what I am and not what he thinks I am, we'll have a chance to speak on
friendly terms.'
'Don't hold your breath,' Sally warned him.
'No,' Gibran answered, 'I don't suppose I will.' Again they took a moment to
look at each other silently before Gibran spoke again. 'But there's one thing I
must make clear to you [?] I cannot and will not let anything or anybody put
the reputation of Butler and Mason at risk. Of course, I respect the fact your
police investigation must take priority, but other than that I will do what
must be done to finish this matter with James one way or another, for better or
for worse for him.'
Sally glanced away for a second as if considering his words. Then she looked
him in the eye. 'I understand,' she said. 'You do that. Provided you tell us
everything we need to know about Hellier, you have my word we won't interfere
in any internal decisions your company makes about him. But tread carefully,
Sebastian, for both our sakes.'
Hellier glanced at his watch. Almost five thirty p.m. The police had been
deliberately slow in bailing him. DI Corrigan had been conspicuous by his
absence. No matter. He had enough time. Just.
He wore the clean clothes that Templeman had arranged. The police had seized
the ones he'd been wearing and once again they'd emptied the wardrobe and
drawers back at his house. They didn't have much to take this time around. He
was still in the process of refilling them after the first raid when they'd
seized every item of clothing he possessed. Corrigan was costing him a fortune.
There was no time to go home first. Never mind. He had done well to plan in
advance. He had a change of clothes, his phone and the weapon waiting for him.
Not that he was expecting a fight. He was the master of gaining instant
control. Years of practice ensured that his strength was seldom matched. He
feared nothing and nobody, but the gun was nice insurance all the same.
He stood on the front steps of Peckham police station. He'd already exchanged
farewells with Templeman, who had no idea how final Hellier had meant it to be.
One more thing to take care of and then he would be gone. He didn't anticipate
needing Templeman's services again.
He scanned up and down the street. They were back. Did Corrigan never learn his
lesson? Fine. If they wanted him to make fools of them again, he was happy to
oblige. He looked for a black cab. This was Peckham. There were none. Realizing
that he stood out far more than he wanted to, he began walking towards what
passed for the centre of this south-east London suburb.
Hellier entered the first mini-cab office he came across. A group of elderly,
cheerful West Indian men sat around smoking and laughing loudly at some joke
Hellier had just missed. One of the men spoke. He spoke slowly and
thoughtfully, curbing his accent enough for Hellier to understand.
'Yes, sir. What can I be doing for you today?' he asked.
'I need to get to London Bridge.'
'No problem, sir. I'll take you myself,' the cabbie replied. Seconds later the
car pulled away, and as it did so, six other cars and four motorbikes began to
move with it. The driver was unaware he had become the focus of so much police
attention, but Hellier knew they were there. Occasionally he stole a glance in
the nearside wing mirror. He spotted one of the motorbikes, nothing else; but
he didn't have to see them to know they were there.
'Lovely day,' Hellier said to the driver.
'Yeah, man,' the driver beamed. 'Just like being back in Jamaica.' They both
laughed.
Sean was back at his desk, weighing up the options. So far he'd come up with a
dozen what ifs, but none of them helped the investigation. None of them helped
him. He'd had no choice but to let Hellier walk away on police bail. Taking a
deep breath, he reminded himself to be patient. When the DNA results came back
he could bury Hellier. He was certain of it.
He rubbed his tired eyes with the sides of both fists. For a second he couldn't
see properly. When they cleared, he found himself focused on his computer
screen, reminding him he needed to check his emails. It was the first chance
he'd had to check his inbox. Amongst the dozens of emails there was one from
SO11. The details of the telephone numbers from Hellier's address book. He
wasn't in the mood to start ploughing through names and numbers; his quota of
patience had been used up hours ago. He peered out into the main office,
looking for anyone he could delegate it to, but everyone appeared busy. His
conscience got the better of him and he started to read through the list
himself.
Most appeared to be the numbers of banks, both in the UK and abroad. Other
numbers were of accountants, diamond dealers, gold merchants, platinum traders.
Hundreds of names, but only a handful of personal numbers. He paid particular
attention to these. He read through the names slowly and deliberately. Daniel
Graydon's number was there, as he'd expected: both his home and mobile numbers.
So what? It meant nothing, now that Hellier admitted knowing him. He checked
for the names of the two other victims, Heather Freeman and Linda Kotler. He
didn't expect to find the runaway's name, but perhaps Kotler's. It wasn't
there. He was disappointed, but not surprised.
The mini-cab dropped Hellier off on the outside concourse at London Bridge. He
was delighted to see thousands joining the great commute home and even
considered waving along the street at the police following him. He couldn't see
them, but he knew they would be able to see him. A little wave would get them
thinking, but he resisted the temptation - this was no time to show off. Soon
he'd be gone, but first he had some business to take care of. Top of the list
being his mysterious friend.
He'd considered leaving, not even bothering to meet the man, but he wasn't a
gambler. He only played when he could manage the risks, and that meant finding
out what this man knew, if anything. Could he damage him? Hurt him? Hellier had
to find out. No loose ends, he reminded himself. Leave things nice and tidy,
just how he liked it. That didn't mean there wasn't time for one last thrill.
One last indulgence.
Hellier walked fast into the train station, ducking into WH Smiths, watching
the main entrance through the magazine shelf, waiting for the surveillance team
to enter. They were good, only one standing out as she scanned the crowds for
him. Commuters never looked around. They were on auto-pilot. She stood out like
an amateur, but the others were invisible.
He took the other exit from the shop and walked back across the inside
concourse and out the same exit he'd entered, all the while trying to remember
the faces he passed. If he saw them again he would assume they were police. He
crossed the short distance to the underground station, stopping suddenly at the
top of the stairs and spinning around. No one reacted. A smile spread across
his lips. They were very good indeed.
Once again he descended into the underground that had served him so well in the
past. He followed his normal anti-surveillance pattern, tactics designed to
lose even the best: travelling short distances on trains and then stepping off
at the last moment, walking swiftly through tunnels, past zombified commuters,
on to another train and away again. Over and over he repeated the procedure,
but they stayed with him, leaving him both annoyed and impressed. No matter. As
always, James Hellier was one step ahead.
Finally he arrived in Farringdon and made his way to the bar he had chosen the
day before. It was busy enough but not heaving. Ideal. He headed straight to
the toilet unnoticed. The cubicle he wanted was unoccupied. Two customers stood
at the urinals, not noticing him as he shut the door. He didn't have time to
wait for them to leave - in fact, it was better they were there. Soon the
police would be here, inside the bar looking for him. He began to undress.
Sean's mobile vibrated on the desk in front of him. He kept reading the email
as he answered absentmindedly. 'Hello.'
'Guv. It's Jean Colville.' Sean recognized the surveillance team's DS. 'Your
man certainly knows his counter-surveillance tactics.'
'I noticed,' said Sean ironically. 'Where are you?'
'Farringdon. Trying to keep up with your target. He's in a bar in Farringdon
Road. He gave us the right run around, but we're still on him. Bit thin on the
ground, but the others are doing their best to catch up.'
'Is the bar covered?' Sean asked, concerned.
'Just. I got one unit around the back - there's only one exit there. Three in
the bar and two more out the front. Apparently your man's in the toilet.
There's no other way out of there other than the door leading to the bar. So as
long as he stays in there, we're solid.'
'Good.' Sean breathed easier. 'Don't give this one an inch. If you can't see
what he's doing, assume he's doing something we'd rather he wasn't.'
'Understood. I'll call you if the situation changes.'
'It'll change,' Sean warned her. 'Just be ready when it does.' He hung up.
'Problem?' Donnelly asked, appearing at Sean's open door.
'Not yet,' Sean replied. 'They've followed Hellier to Farringdon.'
'Well, so long as they don't lose him this time. By the way, you should know
Jonnie Dempsey has turned up. Handed himself in at Walworth. The locals are
holding him for us. Apparently he's telling them that he'd been helping himself
to a portion of the night's takings from his till on a regular basis. He
thought the management were on to him, so he took off. When he heard the place
was crawling with Old Bill, he decided to lay low. But eventually he decided
things were getting a bit too serious to ignore and thought it best to hand
himself in.'
'Scratch one suspect,' Sean said.
He saw Sally enter the main office. He hadn't spoken with her since that
morning. He caught her eye and beckoned her over. 'How did your meeting with
Gibran go?' he asked.
Sally took a seat without being invited. 'It was interesting enough. He
certainly didn't give me any reason to suspect Hellier less. Said he'd been
acting out of character lately, missing appointments and so on, and that he
felt he was only now seeing the real James Hellier. That the other Hellier,
before this all started happening, was the fake. He also said Hellier had been
rambling on about living his life beyond good and evil.'
'Nietzsche,' Sean spoke involuntarily.
'Pardon?' Donnelly asked.
'Nothing,' said Sean. 'It's not important. Anything else?' he asked Sally.
'Not really,' she replied. 'He was probably just trying to find out what we
knew.'
'So long as he paid for lunch,' Donnelly said.
'As a matter of fact, he did,' Sally told him. 'Which is more than you've ever
done,' she added.
'Harsh, but fair,' said Donnelly.
'What did you do with the rest of the afternoon?' Sean asked, not meaning to
sound as though he was checking on her.
'Lunch took longer than I'd expected.' She blushed, recalling her time with
Gibran and how she'd been in no rush to end their meeting. 'After that I chased
up some inquiries at the Public Records Office, but they didn't have my results
yet. I hear Hellier's been bailed.'
'We can't hold him until the DNA results are confirmed,' Sean explained. 'Takes
too long.'
'And if the DNA isn't Hellier's?' she asked.
'Then I'll be in the shit,' Sean said bluntly. 'So don't be standing too close.'
Hellier had been in the toilet for less than a minute. He could hear people
coming and going outside the cubicle. He moved quickly now. Unconcerned about
noise. He stood in only his underpants and socks.
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 moustache. He stuck
it under 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.
DS 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 on to the dashboard in disgust, she reached for her mobile
phone. She searched the phone's menu for Sean's number.
Sean 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.'
Hellier 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 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 favourite
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.'
Sean 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 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
"non-police" 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 towards 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.
Sally parked her car close to her flat. Sean had sent them all home. They might
as well get a few hours' 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 of her handbag and spilling the
contents on to 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 in to 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 towards him, inching herself
around, desperately trying to recall her self-defence 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 woollen hat covered
his hair. She could see every muscle in his body was tense, his arms rigid by
his side. 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 millimetres. 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 back 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 towards 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 you. 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 spoilt. 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 only had 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 pedal cycle. 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 eyeline. It would
do.
He turned back towards 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
got 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
neighbour'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 towards her, long confident steps propelling him forward.
She fell, crashing into her neighbour's door, and banged her fist twice, as
hard as she could, on the door. Still he strode towards 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.
It was gone eleven p.m. when George Fuller, inside flat four, heard something
crash into his front door. The surprise made him jump and spill some of his
beer. The cold drops fell on to his wife's face as she slept in his lap on the
sofa. He had been watching a bad sci-fi film. She woke with a moan.
'George,' Susie Fuller complained, 'you've spilt beer on me.'
He was annoyed his wife had been woken. Now she would want to watch the other
channel. 'It'll be that bloody woman from across the hall again.' He was
already up and heading towards the front door. He was a big man. His two
favourite places were the gym and the pub. The results were intimidating. 'She
must be a prostitute or something, the hours she keeps.'
He was only steps away from the front door when he heard the two thumps. They
came from lower down on the door. As if someone was sitting on the other side.
Someone in trouble maybe? Someone drunk? Drunk, he decided.
'George,' he heard his wife enquiring. 'Who is it? What's going on?'
'Stay there,' he told her. She could hear the anger in his voice. He reached
the door and yanked it open. His chest was full, ready to power a verbal
onslaught at whoever he found. The door opened wide in one sweep. Sally's still
body slumped heavily on to the floor at his feet. He could see she was
bleeding, but didn't see the knife.
He sensed danger. Five years as an officer in the Parachute Regiment had tuned
his instincts. He didn't think. Didn't hesitate. He bent over fast and grabbed
Sally's arm. He began to drag her back into his flat. A movement caught his
eye. Something in Sally's flat opposite. He looked up into the dim red light.
Something moving fast. Too fast. Was that a man? The dark shape slithered
through the small kitchen window and was gone.
He snapped himself back into action, dragging Sally into his flat and slamming
the door shut. He bent to examine her then turned his attention to the front
door. He secured every lock he could see. His wife appeared in the hallway.
'George?' she asked. The worry was loud in her tone.
'Call the police,' he shouted, loudly enough to make Susie hug herself. 'And
get a fucking ambulance.' He was back in Afghanistan, shouting orders at
teenage soldiers.
His wife was staring at Sally lying on her floor. She started to cry with fear.
'What's happening, George? What was it?'
George looked at his own bloody hands. 'I don't know. I don't know.' His voice
grew calmer. 'I saw something out there. A dog, or a fucking big cat or
something. It escaped through her window.'
He examined Sally more closely. His battlefield medical trauma training came
back to him as he rolled her on to her side and checked for the wounds. He saw
the knife, making him recoil. It had been a man he saw.
'Jesus Christ,' he whispered quietly. 'Get me some tape and plastic bags.' He
was shouting again. 'Come on. Come on,' he spoke to Sally. 'Hold on, girl.
Help's on the way. Just a little longer. Just a little longer.'
The mobile rang loudly. Kate woke first. Sean slept deeply, sedated by alcohol.
He'd hit the bourbon pretty hard after Kate had left him. It was the only way
he could chase their argument and Hellier from his mind long enough to get to
sleep. She turned the bedside lamp on and looked at her husband sleeping. She
wished she could leave him, but a phone call at two a.m. would have to be
important. She shook him as gently as she could while still waking him.
'Sean.' She spoke softly. She wanted to wake him, not the children. 'Sean.'
He moaned and rolled over to look at her, his eyes vacant, wandering between
the real and dream worlds. He didn't hear the phone yet.
'Your phone,' Kate whispered.
'What time is it?' he asked.
'About two. And keep your voice down.'
Sean moaned again then grabbed the phone. 'Hello.'
'Sorry to call at this hour.' He didn't recognize the voice. 'I'm Inspector
Deiry, the Night Duty Inspector for Chelsea and Fulham. I'm trying to trace a
Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan.'
'You've found him,' Sean said. His head thumped mercilessly. The nausea spread
from his stomach to his throat. He remembered why he rarely drank more than a
glass or two of beer.
'I'm sorry to be the one to have to tell you this ...' The Inspector sounded
grim. 'Do you work with a DS Sally Jones?'
Sean's mouth was as dry as his heart was frantic. He managed to answer. 'Yes.
She's on my team. What's happened to her?'
'She was attacked, earlier tonight. In her flat. She's very badly hurt.'
The blood rushed from his head, then just as quickly flooded back. He'd never
felt so cold. 'But she's alive?'
'Yes.'
'Jesus Christ,' Sean said. 'Where is she?'
'Charing Cross Hospital. She's still in surgery.'
Sean checked his watch. 'I'll be there in less than an hour.'
He hung up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, staggering a little as
he stood. Kate noticed it.
'What's happened?' she asked.
'Sally's been attacked. In her own flat. She sounds bad. I've got to get to
Charing Cross Hospital.'
'Oh my God. Who would want to hurt Sally?' Sean looked at her without speaking.
'Not the man you're after?' Kate asked. 'You told me they never came after
police.'
'This one's different.'
'Different how?'
'In every way imaginable,' Sean said. 'I've got to go.'
'Get a shower,' she insisted. 'Then I'll drive you.'
'No. I'm fine.'
Kate was already out of bed. 'I'm phoning Kirsty. She can watch the kids till
morning.'
'Don't bother,' he argued. 'I can drive myself.'
She grabbed the sides of his face in her hands and locked eyes with him. 'The
last thing Sally needs is for you to drive under a bus pissed. I'll drive you.
After you've had a shower to sort yourself out.'
Sean knew she would have her way. He headed for the shower, reeling under the
effects of the shock. He had to call Donnelly. The team needed to know what had
happened. Any one of them could be next.
By the time Kate had driven them to Charing Cross Hospital the last effects of
the alcohol had almost faded. Kate and he met the uniformed inspector in the
Casualty Department waiting room. He was with a female uniformed sergeant. Sean
introduced himself to the inspector. He didn't introduce Kate and the inspector
didn't introduce the sergeant.
'Where is she?' Sean sounded harsh. 'Can I see her?'
'No. She's still in surgery,' the inspector told him. 'It'll be a few hours
before anyone can see her.'
'What happened to her?'
'She hasn't spoken since the neighbour found her. All we know is she was
attacked in her own flat. And she has two very serious stab wounds to her
chest, both on the right side. It's a life-threatening situation, but she's
holding on.'
'Who's the neighbour?'
The sergeant referred to her notebook: 'George Fuller. Ex-paratrooper captain.
Now works for the local council. Found her at about eleven, slumped in the
communal area against his door. Two chest wounds. The knife was still in her.'
She glanced up from her notes in time to see Sean wince. 'Mr Fuller was a medic
in his army days. He used Sellotape and plastic shopping bags to seal the
wounds and keep her chest cavity air-tight. The admitting casualty doctor said
he had undoubtedly saved her life.'
'Where is he now?' Sean wanted to see the man who had saved Sally.
'He went home,' the inspector answered. 'He insisted on coming with DS Jones in
the ambulance, but I sent him home a little while ago.'
'What's happened to her flat?' Sean asked.
'Nothing,' said the inspector. 'We've sealed it off for the time being.'
'Good. Post a guard on the flat. No one is allowed in without my say so.'
The inspector looked quizzical. 'I'm sorry, but this is a local matter. Our CID
will be in charge of the investigation. The scene's secure. There's no need to
guard it.'
'Wrong.' Sean was feeling angry and tired. He didn't want his instructions to
be questioned. 'I'm the officer in charge of this investigation. Any problems
with that, phone Detective Superintendent Featherstone, Serious Crime Group
South.' He gambled the inspector wouldn't. Not at this hour. 'I'll liaise with
your CID and put them in the picture.'
Sean could see the inspector needed more. 'This attack is linked to a series of
murders I'm investigating. DS Jones was part of that inquiry team. Whoever
committed those murders is the same man who attacked her. So get me the guard
on the flat,' Sean demanded. 'What security have you put in place here?'
'I've posted a uniformed officer to stay with her,' the inspector explained.
'I want at least two officers watching her,' Sean insisted.
'I'll do what I can.' The inspector looked shaken.
Sean spied Donnelly thundering along the corridor. He charged up to them.
'That bastard's dead,' were his first words. 'I'll tell you that for nothing.
He's going straight out the fifth-floor window. Aye, I fucking promise you
that.' His Scots accent had suddenly grown stronger.
Sean held a hand up and was on the verge of telling him to calm down when he
was distracted by his mobile ringing.
'Sean Corrigan.'
'It's DS Colville, sir. Sorry about the time, but I thought you'd want to know,
Hellier's just arrived home.'
Sean and Donnelly approached Hellier's house. The local night-duty CID had
arrived to assist them. That made four of them in total. They met in the
street, fifty metres short of the house. They swapped names and shook hands.
'Is this it?' Sean asked. He had hoped the local station, Islington, would have
provided more assistance.
'We've already got a couple of uniform lads hiding round the back,' one of the
DCs informed him.
Donnelly looked at Sean. 'Your call, boss. We could wait for back-up. We could
have a firearms team within an hour.'
Sean would have preferred to take Hellier by himself, have some time alone with
him. Clearly he didn't have the guts to come after him or Donnelly, so he went
for Sally. Well now they'd come after him.
'Let's do it,' Sean said. 'No more waiting.'
The younger Islington detective opened the boot of their car and pulled out a
heavy metal battering ram. It was known as an Enforcer. 'We brought this,' he
announced. 'Just in case.'
'Shame to waste it,' Sean said grimly. 'Listen, he may not look much, but he's
killed at least three people already. And now he's gone after one of ours.
Don't drop your guard.'
They all nodded their understanding and walked silently but rapidly towards the
house. Carefully they opened the black wrought-iron gate and moved to the front
door. There were three stone steps. The older detective spoke to the officers
at the rear of the house on the radio, his voice just above a whisper.
'Units at the rear. Units at the rear. We're going in through the front.'
The radio crackled but they all heard the reply. 'Understood and standing by,
over.'
The young detective holding the Enforcer nodded to Sean. Sean counted him down
with his fingers. Three. Two. One. The detective smashed the Enforcer into the
centre door lock. It exploded, but the door held. It had top and bottom
deadlocks. He stood and hit the top lock hard. The door began to flap open. He
crouched and took out the final lock. The door imploded.
They poured in through the door holding extendible metal truncheons and
screaming, 'Police! Police! Police!'
Sean and Donnelly ran to the staircase. The Islington detectives ran through
the ground floor. As Sean neared the top of the stairs Hellier appeared. Sean
saw him just in time. He partially avoided the kick aimed at his head. It stung
his cheekbone as it impacted. He slumped against the staircase wall for a
second, shaking off the effects of the kick, but was after Hellier before
Donnelly could overtake him.
Hellier climbed the next flight of stairs and disappeared. Sean followed, but
slowed as he approached the top. He wouldn't be caught again. He warned
Donnelly to slow down. From below came the sound of the Islington detectives
beginning to climb the steps.
Sean moved on to the second-floor landing. Hellier was there somewhere. He
found the light switch on the wall and flicked it on. There were five rooms.
Someone appeared at the door closest to him. Instinctively he almost lashed
out, but realized in time it was Hellier's wife. He leaned forward and grabbed
her, dragging her to the floor where he pinned her before she could speak.
'Stay there and don't move,' he shouted. She was too scared to move or argue.
Too scared to speak.
He moved carefully along the landing. His back pressed against the wall.
Donnelly and the other detectives followed. The element of surprise was lost.
Now they needed stealth.
He flicked the light on in the room Hellier's wife had come from, pushing the
door wide open so that he could peer inside before entering. A glance over his
shoulder told him Donnelly was close. The Islington detectives had begun to
search the rooms across the landing. They moved cautiously.
He slipped into the room, back to the wall. Donnelly followed. Sean dropped
into a press-up position and checked under the bed. Nothing. He moved across to
the wardrobe, stretching to grasp the handle without exposing himself to a
full-frontal attack. He yanked the doors open. Clothes still wrapped in plastic
dry-cleaning bags swooshed into the room. Nothing.
He'd had enough. His heart needed a rest. He nodded for Donnelly to check
behind the curtains. Donnelly did so. Nothing. He nodded towards the door and
led the way out. They moved to the next room.
A child's voice called from the landing below. It sounded stressed. The mother
looked at him, appealing. He put his finger to his lips. The last thing he
wanted was a crying child walking into the middle of this.
The distraction had been enough. Hellier seized the opportunity. Sean felt an
incredible pressure close around his right wrist. He tried to hold on to the
telescopic truncheon, but the grip forced his fingers open. His weapon fell to
the floor. He was pulled into the room and spun around by one powerful jolt. He
felt his right arm twist up his back. Cold metal pressed into his throat. Some
instinct told him not to move. Told him he was teetering on the edge of a cliff.
He felt Hellier's bristles rub against his ear. He could smell his sweet
breath. It made him want to vomit, to pull away. Hellier pressed the blade
harder into his throat.
'Ah, ah, Inspector.' He recognized Hellier's voice.
Someone flicked the light on in the room. It was Donnelly, who froze when he
saw them. Hellier smiled. Donnelly re-gathered himself.
'Put the knife down, man.' It sounded like a request, not a demand. Hellier
gave a shallow laugh. He turned his face to Sean, but kept his eyes on
Donnelly. His tongue curled from his mouth. Slowly, deliberately he licked the
side of Sean's face, his body quivering with the thrill of tasting Sean's fear.
He gripped the ear lobe in his teeth and closed his eyes in ecstasy. He
released his grip and stopped smiling. He looked deadly serious. He whispered
in Sean's ear.
'Remember who let you live.'
Hellier threw the knife on the floor and stepped away, placing his hands behind
his head. Sean spun around and caught him full in the mouth with a left hook.
His amateur boxing days made the move effortless.
Hellier fell backwards into a dressing cabinet. He fell hard. Framed pictures
smashed under his weight. The mirror shattered. He rolled on to the floor,
landing on all fours and looked at Sean, smiling through bloody teeth. Sean
stared back, only he didn't see Hellier's face, he saw his father's. His
torturer's.
Sean delivered a powerful kick to the rib cage that lifted Hellier off the
floor. He landed on his back, but still he smiled. Sean kneeled next to him and
began to pile punches into Hellier's face. He didn't know how many he landed
before Donnelly pulled him off, or that he had been screaming 'Bastard!' as
each punch found its target. Nor had he realized he'd broken a bone in his
right hand and that his knuckles had been sliced open on Hellier's teeth.
It took him a while to come back to the world. When he did, he shrugged himself
loose from Donnelly's hold and stared at the bloody mess that was Hellier's
face. Hellier was lying on his back, only partly conscious, spitting blood from
his mouth. His nose was broken.
The two Islington detectives ran into the room. They saw Hellier lying in his
own blood. The knife on the floor. Sean breathing like a mad man. His hands
bloody and swollen. They didn't ask questions.
Saturday, ten a.m., and news had spread of the night's events. The office
buzzed. Hellier had come after one of them.
Sean pressed an ice pack wrapped in an old T-shirt to the swelling Hellier's
kick had left on the side of his face. The other hand was badly swollen. His
little and ring fingers were taped together, as were his index and middle
fingers. He refused to go to hospital and have it put in a cast. The police
surgeon had done her best. He used the broken hand to press the phone to his
ear. The hospital updated him on Sally's condition.
She had survived her operation, the first of several. Still in intensive care.
She hadn't regained consciousness. Drugs would ensure she didn't. For the time
being at least.
A familiar silhouette appeared at his door. Featherstone had come to see and be
seen. He entered Sean's office without ceremony.
'You look like shit.' He sounded unconcerned.
'Thanks,' Sean replied.
Featherstone's expression turned serious. 'How is she?'
'Too early to say. She's in intensive care.'
'Well, if there's anything I can do.' He let the offer hang. Sean said nothing.
'And you - should you be at work?'
'I'm fine.'
'If you want someone to steer the ship for a couple of hours while you get some
rest, let me know.'
'I'll be fine,' Sean repeated.
'Of course you will.' He paused before continuing. 'Do we have enough evidence
to charge Hellier?'
'I have a team searching Sally's flat and another going over Hellier's.'
'What about his office?' Featherstone asked.
'No need.' Sean was blunt. 'Surveillance confirms he didn't return to his
office. We're concentrating on his house and Sally's.'
They were interrupted by Donnelly banging on the door. 'Lab's on the phone,
guv'nor.' Sean could tell Donnelly was excited, an excitement that leapt across
the office and into Sean's chest. His heart rate accelerated, becoming
irregular. 'They've got a match to the hairs found in Linda Kotler's flat.'
Donnelly paused, enjoying the drama. 'They're Hellier's.'
Sean slumped back into his chair. Featherstone slapped his thighs and smiled.
It was over. Sean had his critical evidence. The few seconds of pulse-racing
excitement were replaced by an overwhelming relief. Finally it was over. He'd
been proved right. Hellier was finished.
A female detective appeared in the doorway: 'Someone on the phone for DS Jones,
guv.'
'Transfer them to my phone,' he instructed. She nodded and left. He waited for
the ringing and answered. 'DI Corrigan speaking. I'm afraid DS Jones isn't
available. Is there something I can help you with?'
'This is the Public Records Office at Richmond calling,' the male voice
explained. 'DS Jones had me run a couple of inquiries. I have the results for
her.'
'I'll take them,' said Sean. He grabbed a pen. 'I'll see DS Jones gets them.'
'She wanted birth and death certificates for two individuals: a Stefan Korsakov
and a James Hellier.' Sean felt his heart miss a beat. 'I have a birth
certificate for Korsakov, but no death certificate, so if he's still in the
country, he's alive.'
'And Hellier?' Sean asked.
'Both birth and death certificates for him. Poor little chap never got past his
first birthday.'
'Excuse me?'
'He died in childhood.' The possibilities rushed into Sean's mind.
'What year was Korsakov born?'
'Nineteen seventy-one,' came the answer.
'When did Hellier die?'
'Interesting,' the clerk said. 'Also nineteen-seventy-one.'
It had to be. Somehow Sean knew it. It had to be. 'Thank you,' he managed to
say. 'I'll have someone collect them.' He hung up and turned to Donnelly.
'Remember the suspect Sally was working on?'
'The one from Method Index?' Donnelly asked.
'Yes, Stefan Korsakov. Do you know where she kept the inquiry file?'
'In her desk, I presume.'
Sean moved quickly across the office to Sally's desk. Donnelly followed,
intrigued. Sean tugged at the locked drawers. 'Have you got a skeleton key for
these damn things?' Most good detective sergeants did, although they would
rarely admit it. Donnelly didn't look too happy about it, but produced the key
anyway. Sean hurriedly unlocked the top drawer. A brown file with the name
'Korsakov' written across the front lay inside. He flicked it open and began to
read.
'Do you want to tell me what's going on?' Donnelly asked.
'Did Sally discuss this inquiry with you?'
'Not really.'
'Anything at all?' Sean persisted.
'Only thing she told me was that someone was lying to her.'
'When did she tell you that?'
'I think it was Thursday.'
Sean continued to search through the file, forwards and backwards, almost
oblivious to Donnelly's presence. Finally he looked up. 'Bastard has been
getting help.'
'Sorry?'
'Sally told me his fingerprints had gone missing from the Yard. His photograph
from his intelligence file. She told you she was being lied to - but who by?'
'Guv'nor,' Donnelly kept his voice down, 'what are you talking about?'
'Don't you understand?' Sean asked unfairly. 'Hellier is Korsakov, the man
Sally identified through Method Index as being a possible suspect for our
murder. Stefan Korsakov is Hellier, but everything she needed to make that
connection disappeared. In spite of that, she was getting closer, closer to
finding out the truth, even if she didn't know it herself.'
'Wait a minute,' Donnelly pleaded. 'Hellier is Stefan Korsakov?'
'I'd bet my fucking life on it,' Sean answered. 'When Korsakov got out of
prison he needed to reinvent himself or he was finished in this country. He'd
have to take his money and run. That's not his style. All it took was a new
identity and someone in the police to make his past as good as disappear. The
new identity is easy enough. He goes to a graveyard and picks someone who was
born in the same year as he was, but who died in childhood, the younger the
better. Less history.'
'And he gets a bent copper to make his photos and fingerprints disappear,'
Donnelly finished for him. 'That's why Hellier attacked Sally, because she was
getting too close to finding out his secret.'
'Hellier wouldn't be the only one that would want to stop Sally. Whoever was
helping him had as much to lose as Hellier.'
'Our bent police friend,' Donnelly surmised.
'It has to be a possibility,' Sean admitted.
'Then perhaps the attack on Sally isn't connected to the other attacks?'
'It is,' Sean assured him. 'They're all connected somehow. We just need to
complete the circle of events. Once we do that, we'll know how this all fits
in.'
'Where do we start?'
'We find this bent copper.'
'How?'
Sean scanned the file. He found what he was looking for: the name of the
original officer in the case. Detective Sergeant Paul Jarratt. 'I know that
name.'
'Come again?' Donnelly asked.
'Paul Jarratt, the original investigating officer, I know that name.'
'Maybe you used to work with him?'
'No,' Sean muttered. 'Something recent. Something I've seen.'
Sean studied the man who opened the door of the neat Surbiton home. He and
Donnelly showed their warrant cards and introduced themselves. Jarratt seemed
nervous, but composed.
'I believe you know a colleague of mine,' Sean said. 'DS Sally Jones?'
'Yes,' Jarratt answered. 'She called around here a couple of times, asking
about an old case of mine.'
'I know,' Sean told him. 'Unfortunately I have some bad news concerning DS
Jones.'
'Bad news?'
'I'm afraid she was attacked and seriously injured last night. She's stable,
but critical. I thought as you'd been helping her you should know.'
'Yes,' Jarratt stuttered. 'Thank you. Thank you for thinking of me. Can I ask
how it happened?'
'You can,' Donnelly said, nodding his head towards the inside.
'Yes, of course,' Jarratt answered. 'Please, come in.' He led them to the
kitchen and sat. Sean and Donnelly remained standing.
'I don't know a lot of details,' Sean explained. 'We know she was attacked with
a knife in her own flat and received two serious injuries. She managed to
escape and make it to her neighbour's. She's lucky to be alive.'
'My God,' Jarratt said. 'Who would attack a copper in her own home?'
'Maybe you can help us with that?' Sean asked. Jarratt's jaw dropped slightly.
Sean noticed it.
'Of course,' Jarratt answered. 'I'll help in any way I can, only I'm not sure
how.'
'DS Jones was trying to trace a suspect - Stefan Korsakov, a man you'd had
dealings with some years ago.'
'Yes.'
'Only she was having trouble locating his fingerprints.'
'Yes, I remember her mentioning it.'
'Her inquiries led her to discover that you had requested the fingerprints be
removed from Fingerprints Branch. Apparently Wandsworth Prison needed them to
make copies for their records.'
'Yes, I told DS Jones all this.'
'And you're positive the prison requested them?' Sean asked.
'Yes. My colleague at the time, Graham Wright, collected the prints for me and
returned them. Perhaps he could help you.'
'Do you know a man called James Hellier?' Sean asked without warning.
Jarratt was silent for a while. He appeared to be struggling to recall the
name. 'No, I don't think I know anyone by that name.'
'You're sure?'
'It's not a name that means anything to me,' Jarratt answered.
Sean pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket. 'Will you do me a favour?' he
asked. 'Take a look at these photographs. Tell me if you recognize the man in
them.' Sean emptied the surveillance photographs of Hellier on to the table in
front of Jarratt.
Jarratt leaned forward and shuffled the photographs around, apparently
uninterested. 'No,' he said. 'I don't recognize this man. I've already told DS
Jones I don't know this man, when she showed me a photograph of the same man
when she first came to see me.'
'Are you sure?' Sean asked. 'Are you absolutely sure the man in these
photographs isn't Stefan Korsakov?'
'Stefan Korsakov?' Jarratt asked, disbelief in his voice. 'This isn't Stefan
Korsakov.'
'If not Korsakov, then what about James Hellier? Is the man in this photograph
James Hellier?' Sean persisted.
'I don't know anyone called James Hellier, so I wouldn't know if this was or
wasn't him,' Jarratt answered, the increasing anxiety in his voice palpable.
Sean said nothing, instead he tossed a piece of paper in front of Jarratt.
'What's this?' Jarratt asked.
'Take a look,' Sean told him.
Jarratt lifted it from the table and began to read through the list of names
and telephone numbers on the printout of the email from SO11. 'I don't
understand,' he said, shaking his head.
'What's the matter?' Sean asked. 'Don't you recognize your own name, your own
telephone number?' He leaned over Jarratt and stabbed his finger into the
printout. 'Right there: Jarratt, Paul. And here: your address and your number.'
'What is this?' Jarratt asked.
'This is a list of telephone numbers taken from a notebook belonging to one
James Hellier, who is currently under investigation for murder. What is your
telephone number doing in his notebook, Mr Jarratt?'
'I have no idea,' Jarratt pleaded. 'So he has my telephone number, what does
that mean? There could be any number of reasons why he has my number.'
Sean fell silent. He sat next to Jarratt. 'If it was only the telephone number
in his book, I might believe you,' he said. 'But you've already hung yourself.
You see I found out that DS Jones checked with the prison and they told her
they never requested Korsakov's prints. You lied.' Jarratt didn't respond. 'And
then there are these,' Sean continued, tapping the photographs of Hellier. 'On
our way to see you, we called in on an old colleague of yours, DS Graham
Wright, and I showed him these very same photographs. And you know what he told
me, without any hesitation whatsoever? He told me that the man in these
photographs is Stefan Korsakov. The same Stefan Korsakov who now goes by the
name of James Hellier. But you already know that, don't you, Mr Jarratt?'
'I ... I ...' Jarratt struggled, trapped.
'It's over,' said Sean. 'You were a detective once. You know when the show is
over. It's time to save yourself. Talk to us. Did Hellier attack Sally? You
warned him she was digging around his past and he got worried she was getting
too close, so he tried to stop her the only way he could - by killing her.'
'No,' Jarratt insisted. 'He didn't attack her.'
'So you admit to knowing him?' Donnelly asked.
'Yes ... I mean no.'
'What's that supposed to mean?' Donnelly demanded.
'All right, for Christ's sake. Yes, I've been in contact with him,' Jarratt
admitted. 'But I've got nothing to do with DS Jones being attacked.'
'But you made Korsakov's photographs and fingerprints disappear, yes?' Sean
asked.
Jarratt's body slumped. 'If I talk, you'll look after me, agreed? You guarantee
me no prison time and I'll talk.'
'I can't make that sort of promise, but I'll do what I can. Now talk.'
'Shortly before Korsakov was due to be released from prison I decided to visit
him.'
'Why?' Sean asked.
'Because we'd never recovered the money from his frauds. Millions of pounds
outstanding.'
'And you fancied helping yourself to an early retirement present, eh?' Donnelly
accused.
'No,' Jarratt claimed. 'It wasn't like that. Or at least, not at first. It's
often worth visiting people shortly ahead of their release to remind them that
you're watching them. Make it clear to them that as soon as they start spending
their ill-gotten gains you'll be there to seize everything they have.' Sean was
aware of the practice. 'Sometimes you can cut a deal, get them to surrender
most of the monies, in return for allowing them to keep a proportion as a
reward for playing the game. All very unofficial, but everybody wins. We get to
show monies recovered, the victims get some compensation and the thief gets a
little sweetener.
'But that's not the way Korsakov wanted to play it. He wasn't about to hand
over a penny. However, he could see the point in making sure the police weren't
on his back.'
'Go on,' Sean encouraged.
'He offered me a cut. All I had to do was make a few things disappear.'
'Like fingerprints and photographs?'
Jarratt shrugged.
'How much did he pay you?' Donnelly asked.
'Initially, ten thousand, with further instalments to follow, but ...' he
paused. 'The next time we meet, he shows me photographs. Some were of the two
of us together, with me counting the cash.'
'He set you up?' said Donnelly.
'Yes, but there was more. He had other photographs - of my kids, for God's
sake, at school, in the park, in my own garden.'
'He threatened them?' Sean questioned.
'He didn't have to,' Jarratt replied. 'I knew what he was capable of. I wasn't
going to spend the rest of my life watching over my shoulder, waiting for the
inevitable.'
'As soon as he did that, you should have stopped it, cut your losses and
stopped it,' said Sean.
'And end up in prison? Old Bill don't have it good inside. I decided to bide my
time and hope that eventually Korsakov would move on and forget about me. Then
all of a sudden your DS comes sniffing around, asking all the wrong questions.
As if that wasn't bad enough, Korsakov contacts me, asks me to get you off his
back. It was like a nightmare coming true.'
'You warned him about DS Jones?' Sean accused. 'Let him know she was asking
about Korsakov?'
'No,' said Jarratt. 'Why would I do that? If I'd told him, he would have asked
me to do something about it. Things were bad enough without me making matters
worse.'
'Are you saying Hellier didn't know Sally was looking for Korsakov?' Sean asked.
'He had no idea, as far as I know. He was convinced I'd all but made his past
disappear. I thought the same, until your DS came to see me and I realized I'd
missed something. His file held at Method Index. I didn't even know his details
had been sent to them. Graham must have decided Korsakov would be of interest
to them and sent them the details of his crime, but he never told me he had so
I never knew, until now.'
'He did,' said Sean. 'I guessed you couldn't have known about it, otherwise it
wouldn't still exist. So I asked Wright and he confirmed he was the one who
sent the file to Method Index.'
'And the fingerprints?' Donnelly asked. 'How did you make them disappear?'
Jarratt smiled for the first time since they'd met him. 'Korsakov's idea. I had
Graham pull the prints for me, but we knew Fingerprints would want them back so
Korsakov had me destroy his real prints and replace them with another set, all
correctly filled out on the proper forms, everything kosher. Only we used a
novelty ink Korsakov bought at a joke shop. Within two days the ink disappears
and you're left with a blank piece of paper, or in this case a blank
fingerprint form. When Graham returned them, they looked fine and no doubt got
filed. Then they simply faded away to nothing. Korsakov thought it was
hysterical.'
Sean and Donnelly stared at each other in disbelief.
'You are joking?' Donnelly asked.
'You know Korsakov?' Jarratt asked. 'Or I suppose I should say Hellier. He's as
intelligent as he is vicious. Imaginative and dangerous, but he didn't attack
DS Jones and I doubt he killed the other people you think he did.'
'Why?' Sean asked.
'Because he would have told me.'
'Why would he want to do that?'
'To remind me of what I had become. To remind me that I belonged to him.'
Sean and Donnelly looked at each other in silence. Finally Sean spoke.
'Mr Jarratt, it's time you met a friend of mine.' A short, stocky figure
dressed in a scruffy dark suit walked into the kitchen. 'This is Detective
Inspector Reger, Professional Standards and Ethics, or as you may remember it,
Complaints Investigation.'
Reger casually showed Jarratt his warrant card. 'Paul Jarratt, you're under
arrest for theft and assisting an offender. Get what you need - you're coming
with me.'
The two tape cassettes in the recorder turned simultaneously. Hellier had said
nothing. He sat silently. Face badly bruised, his broken nose taped open to let
him breathe. He refused to confirm his name. Let Templeman do the talking until
he felt it necessary to speak himself. First he would wait and see if the
police were wasting his time, again.
DC Fiona Cahill sat at Sean's side. He wanted to have a woman police officer in
the interview, so he could see how Hellier reacted to the allegation that he'd
attacked Sally. If his eyes darted to DC Cahill, it would be a good indication
he felt some guilt. Could Hellier ever feel guilt?
Sean was looking forward to this interview. Until now, he'd been at a
disadvantage, but the discovery that Hellier was Korsakov had tipped the
balance in his favour. He completed the pre-interview procedure, eager to get
underway.
'Mr Hellier, James, it's time for you to talk to us,' Sean began. 'It's over.'
Hellier said nothing. 'It will go much better for you if you talk to us,' Sean
continued. 'Help me understand why you did these things.'
Nothing.
'Why did you kill Daniel Graydon?' Sean asked. 'Why did you kill Heather
Freeman? Why did you kill Linda Kotler? Why did you try and kill Detective
Sergeant Sally Jones?'
Sean knew he had to keep going. He knew Hellier wouldn't be able to remain
silent much longer. His ego wouldn't allow it.
'What did these people mean to you?' he persisted. 'Did you know them? Had they
done something to make you angry? Did they deserve to die?'
'You know nothing,' Hellier snapped.
'Why did you kill these people?' Sean demanded, his voice raised now.
Hellier regained his stoicism. 'No comment.'
'She's still alive you know. DS Jones is alive - and she's tough. She'll pull
through. She'll confirm it was you who attacked her.'
'Really,' Hellier said.
'Yes. Really.'
'Ha.' Hellier laughed. 'You're a damn fool.'
'You're just damned,' Sean countered.
'Probably.' Hellier seemed pleased at the prospect. 'But right now I'm just
bored.'
'Maybe I can get your interest? At your last interview, you gave us samples of
blood and hair. Remember?'
'No comment.'
'You can answer that question,' Templeman advised. Hellier turned his head
slowly to him. He stared at him, eyes slit.
'No comment.'
'For the benefit of the tape,' Sean explained. 'Mr Hellier was arrested
yesterday on suspicion of having raped and murdered Linda Kotler. On that
occasion he provided samples of hair and blood for forensic comparison to hair
samples found in Linda Kotler's flat. Does that refresh your memory?' Hellier
feigned disinterest. 'Those samples have since been analysed at our forensic
laboratory. It has been confirmed that the samples taken from the scene are a
DNA match to samples provided by you.'
At this, Hellier focused on Sean, eyes narrowed, head turned slightly to one
side. Sean noted the reaction.
'It's over,' he said. 'No more games. You can't argue with DNA evidence. Like I
said, it would be better for you if you start talking.'
Hellier said nothing. Sean spoke almost sympathetically: 'Tell us about the
things you've done,' he encouraged. 'I want to hear about the ... exceptional
things you've done.'
'No comment.'
'What was the point in doing the things you did if you don't tell the world?'
Sean tried to appeal to his ego.
'You and I both know you're lying, Inspector. You couldn't have matched my DNA
to this woman because I've never set eyes on her.'
Hellier's response surprised Sean. He hadn't expected that. Hadn't expected
such a definitive denial. He'd assumed Hellier would try and talk his way
around the DNA evidence, as he had with Daniel Graydon. In spite of everything,
the man was capable of knocking him back, souring what should have been his
moment of triumph. No matter, the DNA evidence alone would hang Hellier.
Hellier studied Sean. His eyes twitched with the concentration.
'You think I'm lying?' Sean asked. 'Mr Templeman will confirm I'm not allowed
to lie about evidence. Only suspects are allowed to lie.'
'I think we're at the stage where you should be specific about the DNA evidence
you have,' Templeman said.
'Two hairs,' Sean answered confidently. 'Both recovered from the crime scene at
Linda Kotler's flat. One on the body. One next to the body. We could tell by
their positions that they had very recently been deposited, and both those
hairs belong to you, Mr Hellier.'
Hellier was without emotion. 'No comment.'
'Can you explain how your hair came to be in Linda Kotler's flat?' Sean asked.
Hellier glared at him contemptuously. 'No comment.'
'This is physical evidence from the scene. I want to remind you that if you
fail or refuse to explain here and now how your hair came to be in Linda
Kotler's flat, then a jury can draw a negative inference from your failure or
refusal to do so. Do you understand, Mr Hellier?'
'No comment.'
Sean leaned across the table, closer to Hellier. 'I don't blame you for not
answering. And I know why you won't, because there is only one explanation,
isn't there? That you went to her flat and you killed her.'
'No comment,' Hellier answered quickly.
'You raped her and killed her.'
'No comment.'
'You raped her. You tortured her. And you killed her.' Sean's anger was rising.
'No comment,' Hellier raised his voice to match Sean's.
'Do one decent thing in your life,' Sean snapped. 'If you can find one shred of
humanity in your body, then use it to help the people whose lives you've
shattered. Give the victims' families some closure. Admit to these crimes.'
'If you have the evidence, then you give them closure,' Hellier taunted.
'Charge me. Tell them you've put the man who killed their darling daughter or
son behind bars. Why do you need me to confess? Do you lack belief, Inspector?'
'Belief's got nothing to do with it, James - or should I start calling you by
your real name, Mr Korsakov? Mr Stefan Korsakov?'
Sean waited for Hellier's reaction. A slight smile, nothing more.
'Like I said, it's not about what I believe. It's about what I can prove, and I
can prove who you really are and that ex-Detective Sergeant Jarratt has been
helping you cover your crimes for years.'
'So the pig finally squealed,' Hellier spat. 'How appropriate.'
'And that's why you tried to kill DS Jones. You had to. You knew she was
getting close to the truth. Jarratt warned you, so you had no choice. She was
going to bring your whole house of cards crashing down, so you broke into her
flat and you tried to kill her.'
'You're delusional. You think I'd kill to protect Jarratt?'
'No. To protect yourself.'
Hellier leaned forward as close to Sean as the table they sat across would
allow. 'I don't care if you think you know who I am, or even if you do know who
I am. I can be anyone I want to be. I can go anywhere I want to go. Do anything
I want to do. Jarratt, a corruptible cop - ten a penny, Inspector. Not reason
enough to kill your little pet.'
Sean swallowed his mounting anger as best he could. 'Nice touch, by the way,'
he told Hellier.
'What are you talking about now?' Hellier asked. 'More delusions, Inspector?'
'Using my name when you approached Linda Kotler. Telling her you were me. Did
you have a false warrant card with you? Or did Jarratt provide you with a real
one, in my name? Did you show her the card when you were telling her you were
me?'
'I don't know what you're talking about. You're insane, man.'
'No,' said Sean, icy calm. 'Not me. It's you who is insane. You have to be.'
The room fell silent, Sean and Hellier locked in combat while Templeman and DC
Cahill looked on uncomfortably, aware they were little more than intruders in a
private duel.
'I think this interview's gone on long enough,' Templeman interrupted, his head
spinning with new revelations, even if Hellier's was not. 'Given the injuries
Mr Hellier suffered while being arrested, I feel this interview should be
stopped until such time as my client has received further medical treatment.'
Sean's broken hand was throbbing to distraction. The double dose of painkillers
he'd swallowed two hours ago was wearing off. He was in no hurry. They would
take a break. He checked his watch.
'The time is now one thirty-six and I'm suspending this interview so that Mr
Hellier can have his injuries examined by a doctor. We'll continue the
interview later.' Sean moved to press the off button. Hellier stopped him.
'Wait,' he insisted. 'Just wait a second.'
What now? What the hell was Hellier up to? Was he finally ready to end the
charade?
'I don't care what your laboratory says or doesn't say. I didn't kill these
people and I didn't attack your precious Sergeant Jones.'
'We're not getting anywhere,' Sean interrupted. 'This interview is over.'
'We're both being used, Inspector,' Hellier snapped back. 'Last night, the
night your sergeant was attacked, I received a call from a man. I received the
call at about seven thirty. It was the same man who called me the night the
Kotler woman was killed, at about seven p.m. He always called me on my mobile,
except the first time. That was earlier in the afternoon, also on the day the
Kotler woman was killed. On that occasion he telephoned my office. The
secretary can confirm it.
'Whoever made those calls was ensuring I had no alibi. He always arranged to
meet me in places where there was nobody about who would remember me, but he
never turned up. He made sure I went to great pains to lose the police
surveillance. He always insisted I lost the surveillance - and now I know why.'
'And I suppose this same mystery man planted your hair at the murder scene of
Linda Kotler?' Hellier shrugged his shoulders. 'I haven't got time to listen to
this crap,' Sean snapped.
'I'm afraid you have no choice,' Hellier reminded him. 'It is your duty to
investigate my defence statement, as I'm sure Mr Templeman was about to point
out. You have no choice but to try and discover who it was that called me on
those days at those times, whether you think it's a waste of your precious time
or not. If you don't, then there's not a judge in the land who wouldn't throw
the case against me out of court.'
Sean knew Hellier was right. As ludicrous as the alibi was, he had to
investigate it. He had to prove it false.
'Fine,' Sean said. 'I'll need the number of the caller.'
'I don't have it.'
'You said he called you on your mobile, so the number would have been displayed
on the screen.'
'Whenever he called, the number was blocked. The display said nothing.'
'Did you try dialling one-four-seven-one?'
'Same result. The number was withheld.'
'Then there's not much I can do.'
'Come, come, Inspector,' Hellier said. 'You and I both know that with the right
tools the caller's number can be obtained. You already have my mobile phone. I
suggest you have your lab rats examine it.'
'It'll be done,' Sean said. 'But it'll take more than that to save you. This
interview is concluded.' Sean reached for the off switch, but stopped when he
heard a sudden urgency in Hellier's voice.
'I sense your doubt,' said Hellier. 'Behind your determination to prove me
guilty of crimes I didn't commit, I know that really you're not sure, are you?
Something grinding away inside you, pulling you in a direction you don't want
to go, pulling you towards the belief that maybe, just maybe you've got the
wrong man. And although you wouldn't give a fuck if I rotted in prison, that
thought would always be with you, wouldn't it? The thought that someone out
there got away with murder.'
Sean shook his head and gave a slight laugh. 'You know, in a strange way I
thought there would be more to you than this. I don't know what exactly, but
something. But it turns out you're just another loser trying to save his
worthless neck. There's nothing special about you. You thought you couldn't be
caught, that you never made mistakes, but you did - not only the hair at Linda
Kotler's murder scene, but the fingerprints in Daniel Graydon's flat.'
'I don't think so,' Hellier said coldly. 'Like I told you, I knew Graydon, I'd
been to his flat. Anything belonging to me you found there means nothing.'
'That's true,' Sean agreed. 'But one thing's been eating away at me about that
ever since we found your fingerprint in the flat, and it's exactly that: the
fact we only found one print, on the underside of the bathroom door handle.'
'What's your point?' Hellier asked.
'One print? That makes no sense,' Sean explained. 'If you had no reason to
conceal the fact you'd been there, then why didn't we find more of your prints?
We should have found dozens. You know what this says to me? It says you cleaned
up the scene, wiped down everything you touched, but you missed one thing: the
door handle.'
'Daniel was very house proud,' Hellier argued. 'My other prints must have been
wiped away when he cleaned.'
'No,' Sean snapped. 'He couldn't have, because we found multiple prints
belonging to other people who had been in that flat after the date when you
said you'd been in there. Daniel didn't wipe your prints - you did. And why
would you do that if you hadn't killed him? Why, James?'
'Because that's the way I have to live my life,' Hellier answered. 'I look
after myself. I've always had to. No one has ever done anything for me, ever.'
It was the first chink in Hellier that Sean had seen. The first crack in his
persona, allowing a second's glimpse into his soul. And in that second he could
see that Hellier was made the way he was by some terrible circumstances in his
past. What those circumstances were, Sean would probably never know, but now he
knew that Hellier wasn't born bad, someone else had made him that way. He felt
a pang of empathy for the man, but this was no time to wonder about the boy
Hellier had once been. A boy whose childhood may very well have mirrored his
own.
'I like to stay paranoid,' Hellier continued, bringing Sean back to the
present. 'It keeps me ahead of the game. I touched little in his flat, and that
which I did touch I wiped clean. People like Graydon are not to be trusted. He
could have caused me problems.'
'So you killed him before he had a chance to. Why not? You'd already killed
Heather Freeman, but you were going to kill him anyway. You selected him as
your next victim and a week later you killed him.'
'No,' Hellier shouted. 'I didn't kill any of them. You're wrong. Completely
wrong.'
'We're getting nowhere,' Sean said, the frustration in his voice obvious. He
was so tired he doubted he could properly structure a sentence let alone any
intelligent questions. 'We'll take an hour's break and try again.' He reached
for the off switch, but once more Hellier stopped him.
'Does she have a guard?' Hellier hurriedly asked. 'At the hospital, your DS
Jones. Does she have a guard?'
'That's not something I would ever be prepared to discuss with you,' Sean
answered.
'Of course she does,' Hellier continued. 'Are they armed as well, these guards?
I think so. I am right, aren't I, Inspector? Which rather begs the question:
why would you have her guarded by men with guns if you truly believe I am the
one who would have her dead, when I'm safely locked up here with you? I just
can't work that one out. Can you?'
'Standard procedure,' Sean answered noncommittally.
'Oh, I don't think so,' Hellier argued. 'I really don't think so. You have her
guarded because you know I'm not the one. Her would-be destroyer is still out
there, and you know it, don't you? Don't you, Inspector?'
'I haven't got time for this.' Sean tried to push the fog of doubt from his
mind.
'I know who it is, Inspector. I know who killed these people and tried to kill
DS Jones. The realization washed over me like a revelation. A moment of
absolute clarity. It could only be him. Only he could know so much about me.
Only he could watch me so closely.'
'Who?' Sean asked, voice rising. 'Let's play your little game. Tell me who.'
'You already know.' Hellier's voice rose to match Sean's.
'Tell me, damn it,' Sean demanded. 'You need to tell me and you need to do it
now, or this interview will be over and you'll end up rotting in Broadmoor for
someone else's crimes.'
'You already know,' Hellier repeated. 'If I know, you know. Use your
imagination. Think as he thinks. Think as we think.'
Sean leaned forward to answer, but suddenly stopped, scene after scene suddenly
playing in his mind, no longer under his control: the first time he entered
Daniel Graydon's flat; the body on the floor in a pool of blood; the autopsy;
walking into Hellier's office; the stench of his malevolence; Sebastian Gibran
watching them. The photographs of Heather Freeman, her throat cut, blue staring
lifeless eyes; Hellier's snarling face when he arrested him at his office;
Sebastian Gibran watching. Linda Kotler's twisted and tortured body; Hellier
admitting he practised sado-masochistic sex; Sebastian Gibran watching.
Sebastian Gibran contacting Sally, meeting her, watching her. Sally attacked in
her own home. The phone calls Hellier claimed to have received, the
instructions he was given that denied him alibis; Sebastian Gibran watching,
watching them all, playing them all - him against Hellier and Hellier against
him, led by the nose like two lambs to the slaughter. But Hellier had worked it
out, his hunger to survive driving him to the answer. And now the revelation
washed over Sean too - Sebastian Gibran. Sebastian Gibran. Sebastian Gibran.
His eyes fell away to the ground as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place in
his damaged mind. 'Jesus Christ,' he finally declared as the face formed behind
his eyes. 'I need to get to the hospital. I need to go now.'
Sean jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over, the sound of Hellier's
growing laughter tearing at his ears.
'Run to her, Inspector,' Hellier tormented. 'Run to her before he beats you to
the prize.'
Sean ran from the interview room, almost knocking Donnelly over as he headed
for the exit to the custody suite and the car park.
'Problem?' Donnelly asked, bewildered.
'I've got to get to the hospital. I've got to get to Sally,' Sean carried on
moving.
'Why?' Donnelly tried to keep pace. 'And what about Hellier?'
'Let him go.'
'After what he tried to do to you?'
Sean glanced down at his swollen hand; the image of Hellier's bloodied face
flashed in his mind. 'I'd say we're even. Just get rid of him and tell him I
never want to see him again.' On reaching the exit, he turned to face Donnelly.
'And then get to the hospital as fast as you can.' He backed out of the exit
and was gone.
Only the closing door heard Donnelly's reply: 'Will somebody please tell me
what the fuck is going on?'
21
Saturday afternoon
I sit on a bench in a pretty little garden in the hospital grounds. It's where
people recovering from amputations caused by cancer come to smoke. No one pays
me much attention, dressed as I am in a dark blue male nurse's uniform. A wig,
moustache and spectacles conceal my true features, and the coiled cheese-wire
handles dig uncomfortably into my hip as it hides in my pocket. A crude weapon,
but quiet and effective in the right hands.
I begin to walk to Charing Cross Hospital's main entrance, feeling the syringe
taped to my chest pulling my shaved skin as I stride forward. The sheathed
knife tucked into the small of my back feels uncomfortable, but reassuringly so.
I like to plan meticulously, but there's been no time for that. I must be
pragmatic, play things by ear. It will be dangerous for me, and even more so
for anyone who gets in my way, but there is no choice, not now. If the pig
bitch survives she will tell the world I was the one who visited her last
night. My beautiful charade would be over. I would have to run ... But if I am
able to correct my mistake, I will remain anonymous.
It was easy enough to find out where she had been taken. Everybody in this area
either gets taken to the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, or as she had, to
Charing Cross. A few phone calls were all it took to find out which, and that
she was in the ICU unit. They were also kind enough to tell me it was expected
that she would recover from her injuries. People really ought to be more
careful with information they give out. You never know who you're talking to.
I make my way confidently through the never-ending, winding corridors to the
laundry room. Medical staff and porters wander in and out of here endlessly,
nobody paying anybody else much attention. These giant hospitals are about as
personal as a rush-hour train station. Their security is a joke.
I help myself to several clean and neatly folded sheets, all wrapped in
transparent polythene, and make my way to the lift that will carry me straight
to the Intensive Care Unit and her. As the lift rises my heart begins to race.
The power surges through my veins. I feel giddy with excitement. It makes me
want to lash out at the other people in the lift, pull the knife from the small
of my back and cut them all to pieces, but I won't. I keep control. I have
other business to take care of today.
As the lift doors slide open I see the Intensive Care Unit stretch out before
me. It's different from the rest of the hospital: darker, warmer, and quieter.
It feels safe. I step into its peace and allow the lift to fall away to rejoin
the chaos. Immediately, I know which room she must be in, dutifully advertised
by the armed police officer standing outside. I have anticipated it. Good. I'll
make good use of his uniform. Once I have that, I'll be spending a few farewell
moments with the little bitch. Then I'll use the syringe I've brought to inject
a bubble of air into her already fragile body and send her quietly to meet her
maker. After all, who's going to question a cop with a gun?
A nurse steps from a room into the corridor and looks me up and down
dismissively, my uniform marking its wearer as a lower creature in the hospital
hierarchy. I look down at the sheets I carry.
'Laundry said you were running low,' I say in the most effeminate voice I can
muster.
'News to me,' is all the self-important slut can say for herself. 'Laundry
cupboard's around the corner, outside the toilet.'
No please, no thank you. How I would like to teach her some manners. Another
time maybe.
I follow her directions, acknowledging the armed pig with a nod of the head as
I pass. I place the laundry in the cupboard then walk to the communal toilet
and open the door. But I do not enter. Instead I contort my face to falsify an
expression of concern and walk quickly and quietly towards the pig. I speak
with the voice of a homosexual, keeping it low so the nurses can't hear.
'Excuse me. I think there's something in the toilet you should see.'
He casts an eye over me, barely able to disguise the disgust on his face, as if
he wants to swat me away like an annoying fly. Eventually he walks towards the
toilet fearlessly, as all pigs with guns are, safe in the false knowledge they
are untouchable. I hold the door open for him as he enters.
'What's the problem?' he asks. It's the last thing he'll ever say. I pop the
cheese wire around his throat and pull it nice and tight. He manages to get
several fingers under the wire, a futile attempt to save himself. If need be
I'll cut through his fingers. I drag him silently into the middle of the toilet
where he tries to reach for anything that will make a noise, anything that will
raise the alarm. He realizes he can't. He gasps for air, his rubber-soled shoes
kicking quietly on the hard floor tiles. Eventually he falls still. There's
blood on his shirt and body armour, but nothing I can't conceal. Should I kill
the nurses? No. It would take too long. If they notice the pig's change in
appearance, they'll just assume a change of guard.
Now, it's time to right a wrong.
22
Sean's siren screamed at the ever-present choking traffic in the streets of
Hammersmith as he drew closer and closer to Charing Cross Hospital and Sally.
The blue light magnetically attached to the roof of his unmarked car gave other
drivers little and often too late a warning of his scarcely controlled
approach. If he crashed now he had no back-up, no one to continue the race
towards Sally. Even in his fear and panic he knew he should have contacted the
local police and had them cover the hospital, but how long would it take to
explain his fears? How long would it take to get authority to deploy further
armed guards? And what if he was wrong? What if this was Hellier's last hurrah,
to make him look a fool? To discredit him as a detective? No, he had to do this
himself. Donnelly would organize back-up, do the sensible thing, but Sean had
to come alone. Right or wrong, he had to come alone. Somehow he knew everything
would end soon. Everything.
As he swung into the hospital car park he killed the siren and lights, suddenly
feeling the need for stealth. Ignoring the signs for the main entrance, he made
straight for the Accident and Emergency Department. He parked the car in an
ambulance bay and abandoned it, keys in ignition and door open.
Sean ran as quickly as he dared through the swing doors. He didn't know the
hospital as well as he did the hospitals of south-east London and the East End,
but he remembered where he'd seen the lifts the night Sally was first brought
here.
He jabbed the arrow button to summon the lift and waited, beyond impatient, for
the metal boxed carriage to arrive, while studying the hospital floor guide for
Intensive Care. He found it just as the lift arrived. Without waiting for the
doors to open fully, he leapt in and punched the floor he needed with the side
of his fist. Thank God there was no one else in the lift, no one to slow his
ascent to Sally. Two floors short of his destination the lift suddenly stopped
and doors slid open painfully slowly. A gaggle of chatting nurses stepped
towards the entrance. Sean flashed the warrant card he already held in his hand.
'Sorry,' he almost shouted. 'Police business. Use another lift.' He jabbed the
lift's button and the doors closed on a mix of protests and disbelieving
giggles.
Finally the lift drew to a smooth halt at the ICU floor. The doors silently
opened, the warmth and silence of the unit wrapping around Sean; mechanical
whirs and beeps that appeared so reassuring.
As Sean stepped from the lift he saw the armed uniform officer standing outside
what he assumed would be Sally's room. The officer had his back to the wall;
Sean presumed this was so he could see in both directions along the corridor.
His eyes were immediately drawn to the automatic pistol on the officer's thigh,
as any policeman's eyes would have been. The officer's flat hat was pulled low
over his forehead, military style, almost totally hiding his upper facial
features. Sean guessed he would have been an ex-soldier, a guess made all the
more likely to be true by the macho moustache the officer proudly wore. Sean's
eyes darted around the unit, checking for other signs of life. Two ICU nurses
busied themselves quietly with another ravaged soul in a room two doors away
from Sally's.
Sean held his warrant card aloft. 'DI Corrigan. I need to see DS Jones.' The
uniform nodded his permission as Sean entered through the already open door. He
walked slowly towards Sally, already fearing the worst, his heart pounding out
of control, making it difficult to breathe; his stomach felt painful and
knotted. But as he drew closer he became aware of the comforting, rhythmic
sounds emanating from the machines that surrounded Sally. Heart-rate monitors,
pulse monitors, blood-pressure monitors all reassuring him that she was alive.
Even the ugly, impossibly big tube that snaked into Sally's throat, feeding her
oxygen, somehow made Sean feel at ease. He finally inhaled a long breath and
blew it out through pursed lips.
He placed a hand on Sally's forehead and gently stroked her hair back. He was
struggling for something to say when he suddenly felt a presence behind him,
some change in the atmosphere of the room. He spun on his heels, heart rate
soaring, adrenalin already beginning to prepare his body for combat.
'Bloody hell,' Sean said as he saw Donnelly step into the room. 'You got here
fast.'
'Aye. I hitched a ride with the uniform lads in a response car, blues-and-twos
all the way. No expense spared.' Donnelly's tone changed. 'Is she okay?'
'I think so,' Sean replied.
'Care to tell me what's going on? Why we are here? Why we let Hellier walk away
a free man again?'
Sean opened his mouth to explain, but no explanation came forth, only a
question. 'Where's the guard? The armed guard? Did you see him?'
'I didn't see a guard,' Donnelly answered. 'Just you.'
'No. You got here right after I did.' The fear was back again, the knot in his
stomach worse than ever. 'There was a guard outside this room.'
'Okay,' Donnelly said calmly. 'I believe you, guv'nor. Christ, he's probably
gone for a piss.'
'The toilet,' said Sean. 'I have to check the toilet.'
'Why?' Donnelly asked. 'What's the problem?'
'I know who the killer is,' Sean answered, already racing along the corridor,
searching for the toilet, shouting now. 'He's here. I know he's here.'
'Hellier's the killer,' Donnelly argued. 'But you let him go.'
Donnelly's words would have stung Sean, but he wasn't listening, he was
frantically searching for the toilet and the uniformed officer. At last he
found the communal toilet and threw the door open. Three sinks lined one side
and three toilet cubicles the other. Only one of the cubicle doors was shut.
Sean walked slowly into the room.
'Hello,' he called to no one. 'I'm Detective Inspector Corrigan. I need to know
if anyone is in here ... Is anyone in here?' Silence. He moved to the closed
cubicle and placed his palm on the door. The small square of green told Sean
the door wasn't locked. Gently he pushed and the door swung open.
Sean couldn't help taking two steps backwards, repelled by the sight of the
nearly naked man slumped on the toilet, eyes bulging grotesquely, his swollen
purple tongue protruding from his mouth, rolled to one side. The burgundy
colour of his face contrasting pitifully against the pale, now wax-like skin of
the rest of his body. Sean stared at the scene, his mind processing the
information. He saw one of the man's arms had fallen across his lap, while the
other was still raised, the fingers desperately grasping at the thin metal wire
that was buried into his neck and throat. Drying blood stained the dead man's
hands and chest, blood that had run from the virtually severed fingers.
Donnelly appeared at Sean's shoulder, ready to continue the argument until he
saw the body.
'Jesus Christ,' Donnelly said. 'What in God's name is going on?'
'It's Gibran,' Sean told him. 'Sebastian Gibran killed him and all the others.'
'But who is this poor bastard?'
'Our armed police guard. Gibran must have taken his uniform. I walked straight
past him, bastard.' Sean turned and began to run towards the lifts, drawing
concerned glances from two nurses who'd come out to see what the commotion was
about.
'Where you going?' Donnelly called after him.
'Stay here and watch over Sally,' Sean commanded, punching the lift button.
'I'm going after him. He can't have taken the lift, else you'd have seen him,
so he must have used the stairs. I can make up the ground.'
'That's not a good idea, guv,' Donnelly shouted. 'If he took the uniform, then
he took the gun too. Let an armed unit--'
The lift doors closed, cutting off the rest of the sentence. As it began to
descend, Sean left Donnelly's world and entered one that few people would ever
truly understand and even fewer could ever survive.
Sean ran frantically through the crowded lobby of the hospital, straining,
searching in all directions for any sign of Gibran, any sign of a uniform
striding through the crowds. Increasingly desperate, he approached passers-by,
thrusting his warrant card into their faces.
'A uniformed officer,' he demanded. 'Has anyone seen a uniformed officer?'
Most recoiled from him in fright, but finally he came upon a startled hospital
porter who nodded in response to his question.
'How long ago?' The porter just gawped at him. Sean grabbed the man by the
collar. 'How long ago?'
'A couple of minutes,' the man stuttered.
'Which way?'
'Out the main exit, towards the car park.'
Sean released the porter and made for the exit, sprinting now, not caring who
saw him, who he knocked out of the way, oblivious to the panic he might be
causing. He kept running towards the car park, in blind hope more than belief.
He'd been running hard for over a minute and his lungs and thighs were on fire,
but still no sign of Gibran. Sean bent over, resting with his hands on his
hips, desperately trying to draw new oxygen into his exhausted blood. After a
few seconds he straightened and began to scan the vast car park. His mobile
vibrated in his pocket. Donnelly's name came up on the screen. Somehow he
managed to speak.
'I've lost him,' was all he said.
'Where the hell are you?' Donnelly asked.
'In the main car park,' he answered breathlessly. Then, about a hundred metres
ahead of him, bobbing his way through the legions of parked cars, he saw a
figure clad in police uniform, the peaked cap prominent. 'He's here, in the car
park. I can see him.' He hung up without waiting for Donnelly's response.
The excitement electrified Sean's body. The pain in his chest and legs was soon
forgotten as he sprinted faster than he knew he could towards the walking
figure, so fast that he knew he would catch up with the man - but if it was
Gibran, why wasn't he running? What was he waiting for?
As Sean closed the last few metres the man turned to face him with the speed of
a snake. Sean saw nothing but the knife in the man's hand. The shining,
gleaming knife that Sean was about to run on to. Sean tried to stop, but knew
he would be too late. He braced himself for the unbearable pain that he knew
was about to cut into his stomach or his liver or chest.
The last thing Sean saw before he closed his eyes were Gibran's white teeth,
his lips curled back in a grin as he prepared to impale Sean on his short,
sharp blade. But no cutting pain ripped into Sean's body. Instead he was hit by
an incredibly powerful force in the chest, like being struck by a medicine ball
fired from a cannon. It lifted him off his feet and threw him backwards. He
landed on a car bonnet and rolled on to the ground, immediately springing back
to his feet, instinctively checking his chest for blood. There was none.
Sean quickly regained his bearings, his eyes searching for Gibran, his mind
trying to work out what it was that had hit him. Even as the scene in front of
him became clear, his mind struggled to make sense of what he was seeing.
James Hellier was holding Gibran in a grip not even he could escape from. The
knife that had been in Gibran's hand was now in Hellier's. He pressed it hard
into Gibran's throat, breaking the skin, allowing a trickle of blood to escape.
Hellier's other hand pushed the pistol he'd already slipped from the holster on
Gibran's thigh into his kidney. Swiftly tucking the pistol into his waistband,
Hellier used this free hand to enhance his physical dominance of Gibran, who
squirmed in protest.
'Ah, ah,' Hellier warned him and pushed the blade a little deeper into his
throat. Sean watched as Hellier suddenly pulled one of Gibran's arms behind his
back. Sean heard a click and knew what was happening. Gibran visibly winced.
With practised ease Hellier pulled the other arm backwards and another clicking
sound. Again Gibran winced as the handcuffs were tightened around his wrists.
All the while, Hellier kept the knife pressed to his throat.
Hellier spoke to Gibran, Sean a mere observer. 'If you cross me, you have to
pay the price. You have to pay the ferryman.'
'Don't do it, James,' Sean asked calmly, trying to somehow wrestle control of
the situation. 'Can you hear that?' Above the sounds of the city, the wail of
approaching sirens announced that reinforcements were closing in. 'I know you
didn't kill anyone, James,' Sean continued. 'But if you kill him, you'll rot in
prison all the same.'
'I can't let him live,' Hellier explained. 'He tried to make a fool of me. He
used me.' Gibran wriggled in protest. Hellier jerked him into obedience.
Sean tried to find the words that would get through to Hellier. Normal threats
or promises he knew would have little effect.
'I took my kids to the zoo,' Sean told him. 'A couple of weeks ago, you know,
I'd promised my wife, so ...' Hellier stared, but remained silent. 'They had a
tiger there, this beautiful tiger in this cage, you know, but all it did was
walk up and down, head bowed, like it had given up. Like all it wanted was for
someone to put it out of its misery. It was all I could think about for days
after. It was ... it was one of the saddest things I've ever seen and I've seen
some sad things. You couldn't survive in a cage, not after the last time,
James. And you know it. Let him go.'
Hellier's eyes narrowed but immediately became animated and wide, a smile
spreading across his face. 'Don't worry, Inspector. I'm not going to kill him.
Not yet, anyway. I want him to live in fear for a while. I want him to taste
fear every day until the day comes when I decide he's lived long enough, then
I'll do for him what someone should have done for your tiger.' Hellier pushed
Gibran the short distance towards Sean, who grappled to hold on to him,
hindered by his broken, throbbing hand, surprised and somewhat intimidated by
Gibran's strength. How had Hellier overpowered him so easily?
'Consider this my going away present,' Hellier beamed. 'Not quite what I had in
mind, but he'll have to do, for now. Oh, and by the way, be careful, Inspector:
he's as dangerous as he thinks he is, and I should know.'
'I'll see you in hell,' Gibran spat towards Hellier.
'I'll be waiting for you there,' Hellier answered, matter-of-factly.
The sirens had shifted from the background to the foreground. Sean glanced over
his shoulder and saw the marked police cars pulling up at the perimeter of the
car park, officers climbing from the vehicles.
'Give me the gun, James. We'll need a statement from you. You help us, we can
make a deal on the Jarratt thing.'
'I don't think so, Sean.' It was the first time Hellier had used his Christian
name. 'Not all of your kind will be so understanding. Besides, it's time for me
to move on. You've already killed James Hellier, Sean.'
Hellier began to walk away, ready to melt into the city that had been his
playground for so long.
'James,' Sean called after him. 'James, you can't just walk away.'
'Remember what I told you: I can be anyone I like and I can go anywhere I want.
Goodbye, Sean.'
'James,' Sean called, the distance between them growing ever greater.
Hellier turned towards him one last time. 'I'll hold on to the gun, if you
don't mind, just in case anyone foolishly decides to follow me. Goodbye, Sean.
Take care now.' Hellier turned his back on Sean, waved once without looking and
disappeared behind a parked van.
'James,' Sean shouted. 'Stefan. Stefan.' But Hellier was gone.
The sight of the uniformed officers closing in precipitated Gibran to make one
last effort to break free. Sean pushed him over a car bonnet and lay across
him. Despite the handcuffs, it took all his strength to control him.
'You can't prove a fucking thing,' Gibran challenged.
'You're wearing a dead police officer's uniform, you piece of shit. You're
finished, Gibran. I'll fucking make sure of it.'
Sean stepped out of the lift and moved fast towards Sally's room. The ICU was
quiet. The maelstrom hadn't broken over the crime scene yet, but it soon would.
Sean entered Sally's room. Donnelly was standing over her.
'Bloody hell, guv'nor. I didn't expect to see you back here. I heard on the
radio you got your man.'
'Plenty of time to deal with him later,' said Sean. 'I take it I have you to
thank for the cavalry turning up?' Donnelly waved his mobile by way of an
answer, but Sean was already searching through the cabinet next to Sally's bed.
'Looking for something?' Donnelly asked.
'Sally's personal stuff,' Sean answered.
'Why?'
'I need it. I need to make sure.'
'Of what?' Donnelly enquired.
'That Gibran goes down for what he did to her.' Sean nodded towards Sally.
'Her personal stuff's probably locked up and logged.'
'Not necessarily. She came in through A and E, remember. They had better things
to do than worry about bagging and tagging property.'
He pulled the bottom door open and saw what he'd been praying for: a plastic
bag containing Sally's personal items. Her simple watch, some jewellery, even
an elastic headband and the thing Sean sought most - her warrant card.
'Is the bag sealed?' Donnelly asked in hushed tones.
'No,' Sean almost whispered the answer. 'Her warrant card's in its own bag, but
it's not sealed.' Sean held the bloodstained police identification gently in
his uninjured hand. He knew what he had to do.
'This needs to be found in Gibran's home when it's searched,' he told Donnelly.
'I understand,' Donnelly assured him.
'It's best if you don't find it yourself. Leave it for one of the other
searching officers to find. Understand?'
'Perfectly, guv. Leave it to me.'
'You're a good man, Dave.'
'I know,' was Donnelly's only reply.
Gibran sat impassively, his hands resting unnaturally on the table in front of
him. Sean and Donnelly sat opposite. There was no one else in the interview
room. Sean hadn't been surprised when Gibran waived his right to have a
solicitor present. He was far too arrogant to believe anyone could protect him
better than he could himself.
Sean completed the introductions and reminded Gibran of his rights. Gibran
politely acknowledged everything Sean asked him.
'Mr Gibran, do you know why you're here?' Sean asked.
Gibran ignored the question. 'I've never been inside a police station before,'
he said. 'It's not quite how I imagined it. Lighter, more sterile, not as
threatening as I thought it would be.'
'Do you know why you're here?' Sean repeated.
'Yes, I understand perfectly, thank you.' Gibran smiled gently, untroubled, at
peace with himself.
'Then you know you're accused of several murders, including the murder of one
police officer and the attempted murder of another?'
'I am aware of my situation, Inspector.'
'Yes,' Sean continued. 'Why don't we talk about your situation, Mr Gibran?'
'Please, call me Sebastian.'
'Okay, Sebastian. Do you want to talk about the things you've done?'
'You mean the things I'm accused of doing.'
'Are you denying that you killed Daniel Graydon? Heather Freeman? Linda Kotler?
Police Constable Kevin O'Connor? Are you denying you tried to kill Detective
Sergeant Jones?'
'What is it you want, Inspector?' Gibran asked. 'A nice neat confession? For me
to tell you where, how and why?'
'Ideally,' admitted Sean.
'Why?'
'So I can understand why those people died. So I can understand why you killed
them.'
'And why is it you want to understand those things?'
'It's my job.'
'No,' Gibran said, still smiling slightly. 'That's too simple a reason.'
'Then why do I want to know?' Sean risked asking for Gibran's opinion.
'Fear,' Gibran answered. 'Because we fear what we do not understand. So we
label everything: a nice, neat explanation hanging around a murderer's neck. He
killed because he loved. He killed because he hated. He killed because he's
schizophrenic. The labels take away the fear.'
'Then what should we put on your label?' Sean asked.
Gibran's smile grew wider as he leaned back from the table. 'Why don't we just
leave it blank,' he answered. 'It would be so much more interesting, don't you
agree?'
'It won't help you in court,' Sean reminded him. 'Life imprisonment doesn't
have to mean life.'
'I understand you're trying to help me, Inspector, but from what I can tell,
you're a long way from convicting me of anything.'
'You will be convicted,' Sean assured him. 'Be in no doubt of that.'
'You sound very sure of an unsure thing,' Gibran said. 'But I'll make you a
deal. If I'm convicted of these crimes, then we'll talk again, maybe in more
detail. If your evidence fails you and I walk away a free man, then we shall
never discuss the matter again.'
'Confessions after conviction are worth nothing,' Sean told him.
'Maybe not to the court, but to you it would be worth a great deal, I believe.'
Sean sensed Gibran was trying to end the interview. Was he tiring? The effort
of attempting to appear sane and polite exhausting him? Sean had to keep going.
'Tell me about yourself,' he said. 'Tell me about Sebastian Gibran.'
'The short, abridged history of Sebastian Gibran. Very well. I was born
forty-one years ago in Oxfordshire. I am the second oldest of four children:
two boys and two girls. My father was something big in agriculture, while my
mother was left to raise us. We were quite wealthy, although not rich. I was
privately educated at a very good local school, where I did well enough to gain
a place at the London School of Economics.
'Armed with a degree in Business Finance I made my way into the big bad world
and became a valued employee of Butler and Mason International Finance. I rose
through the ranks to become one of the senior partners. I am married with two
adorable children, one of each. Quite an unremarkable life, I'm afraid.'
'Until recently,' Sean said, studying Gibran intensely. 'Until something that
is indeed remarkable happened to you. You changed. Something inside of you
couldn't be restrained any longer.'
'I'm not mentally ill, Inspector. I don't hear voices in my head telling me to
kill. There is nothing in me that cannot be restrained. Nothing I do not
control. I am no human monster created by my background. My childhood was a
happy one. My parents loving, my siblings supportive and my friends numerous. I
didn't pull the legs off spiders when I was a boy. I didn't bite my classmates
at nursery or torture and kill the family pets.'
'Then why?'
'Why what?'
Sean swallowed his growing frustration. 'Why did you kill those people? Daniel
Graydon. Heather Freeman. Linda Kotler. Why was it so important to you that
they died?'
'And you want me to tell you so you can understand me?' Gibran asked. 'You want
me to take away your fear.'
'Yes,' Sean responded.
'There's really no point,' Gibran said dismissively. 'I have no answer that
could satisfy your need to know why. There is nothing I could tell you that
could possibly help you understand. In some ways I wish there were, but there
really isn't.'
'Try me,' Sean insisted.
More silence, then Gibran spoke. 'Tell me, Inspector, are you familiar with the
fable of the frog and the scorpion?'
'No,' Sean answered.
'One day,' Gibran began, 'a frog was basking on the banks of a river when
suddenly his slumber was disturbed by an anxious voice. When the frog opened
his eyes he saw a scorpion standing only inches away. Understandably nervous,
the frog hopped away, then a pleading voice stopped him. "Please, Mr Frog," the
scorpion said. "I simply must get to the other side of this river, but I can't
swim. Could I please crawl on to your back while you carry me to the other
side?"
'"I can't do that," answered the frog, "because you are a scorpion and you will
sting me."
'"No," said the scorpion. "I won't sting you. I promise."
'"How can I take the word of a scorpion?" the frog asked.
'"Because if I sting you while we are crossing the river," the scorpion
explained, "we will both drown."
'The frog thinks about what the scorpion has said. Won over by his logic, he
agrees to take the scorpion to the other side. But as they are crossing the
river the scorpion does indeed sting the frog.
'With his dying breath the frog asks, "Why did you do that, for surely now we
both will die?"
'"I couldn't help myself," the scorpion tells him. "It's my nature."
'I always feel sorry for the scorpion,' Gibran continued, 'but never for the
frog.'
Sean let a few minutes elapse before he spoke. 'Are you telling me you killed
four people for no reason other than you believe it's in your nature to?'
'It's just a story,' Gibran answered. 'One that I thought might appeal to you
in particular.'
'Let me tell you why I think you killed these people,' Sean said. 'You killed
them because it made you feel special. Made you feel important. Without it,
your life felt pointless. Making money for other people: pointless. You felt
pointless. And you couldn't stand that empty feeling, every day having to admit
to yourself that you were just another nobody, living a nobody's life. Every
single day, the same feeling of emptiness, of nothingness. It drove you insane.
'You could have been anything you wanted to be. Life gave you all the
privileges and opportunities, but you didn't have the courage to do anything
truly special, to do anything that would set you apart from other men. You
believe we should all bow down to you merely because of who you are. But nobody
did and it made you angry, angry at the world.
'So you decided to teach us a lesson, didn't you? You decided to show us how
special you are by doing the only thing your feeble mind could conceive. Your
twisted sense of self-importance convinced you it was your right, your destiny
to kill. It excused your crimes - and crimes are all they are, no matter what
you may think.
'But committing murder doesn't make you special. It doesn't make you anything
other than one more sick loser, no better than all the other sick losers locked
up in Broadmoor. You can talk about scorpions and your nature and any other
bullshit you like, but we both know that, deep down, underneath this polished
act, this mock menace, you are nothing. Nothing at all.'
'If believing that makes you comfortable,' Gibran responded, 'if it takes away
your fear, then you should cling to that belief.'
Sean knew then that Gibran wasn't going to talk, wasn't going to confess and
explain all. He had to come to terms with the fact they might never know why.
He felt Gibran studying him, expressionless.
'What about Hellier?' he asked, making one last-ditch effort to bring him back.
'What was his part in all of this? Were you working together?'
'James could never be anything other than my employee,' Gibran answered. 'I
would never dirty my hands working with him as an equal. That could never
happen. He was a tool to be used by me to achieve what I needed to achieve. He
was nothing more than an illusion. James was made by circumstance, a cheap
man-made replica. Pathetic, really. I was born to achieve all that I have
achieved. The path I was ordained to follow formed while I was still in my
mother's womb.'
'You used him as a decoy,' Sean accused. 'You crafted the murders so it looked
like Hellier had committed them.'
'Murders?' Gibran feigned surprise. 'I'm sorry. I thought you were talking
about corporate finance.'
'Of course.' Suddenly it was starting to make sense. Eager to explore the
unexplained revelation before it could slip back in to the dark recesses of his
mind, Sean continued: 'I understand now. You gave Hellier his job at Butler and
Mason in the first place, didn't you? As soon as you met him, when and wherever
that was, you knew, didn't you? You knew he was the one you'd been waiting for;
the one you could hide behind. And you made sure you had sole responsibility
for checking his background, because you couldn't risk anyone else discovering
Hellier was a fraud. Did you even bother to check his references, his
employment history, or was it so irrelevant that you didn't even bother? It
wasn't his financial skills you wanted - you wanted him. You needed to have him
where you could watch him, learn everything about him, manipulate him, didn't
you?'
'Hellier was a subordinate, in every way a subordinate, put on this planet by
powers you could never understand to be manipulated by people like me,' Gibran
answered. 'It's the law of Nature.'
'Really?' Sean replied. 'So Hellier is inferior to you? Not as smart as you?'
Gibran answered with a shrug of his shoulders and a smile.
'But if that's so, how come he out-smarted you in the end? He's probably
already setting himself up with a new life of privilege and luxury, while
you're sitting here with us, preparing to spend the rest of your life rotting
in some prison hell-hole. So tell me, Sebastian, who's the smart one now?'
Sean studied Gibran's reaction, watching as his smile fell away, his lips
narrowing and growing pale, his once relaxed fingers beginning to curl into
claws. At last Sean had found a way to peel Gibran's facade away.
'I mean, Hellier practically handed me your head on a plate. He read you like a
cheap novel, predicted your every move, and when the time was right he served
you to me on a platter.'
Sean watched Gibran's breathing grow shallow and then accelerate. Keep pushing
him. Push him until he explodes and fills the room with shrapnel fragments of
undeniable truth.
'He made a fool out of you,' Sean stabbed at him. 'He's made you look like a
damn fool. A predictable idiot, and there's nothing you can do about it. He's
won.'
Sean waited for the eruption, certain he had done enough to provoke the truth
out of him. But no arrogant rant of self-importance came; no declaration of the
genius of his crimes spilled forth. Instead, to Sean's horror, the smile
returned to Gibran's face.
'That's very presumptuous of you, Inspector, to declare the winner before the
game's even over,' Gibran replied, calm now.
'This is no game,' Sean answered, 'but it is over. For you, everything is over.'
Sean knew he was wasting his time. All he was doing was providing Gibran with a
stage to perform on. Tired of listening to him talking in riddles, he decided
to end the interview.
'Mr Gibran, is there anything you want to tell me? Anything at all?'
'I know what you are,' Gibran said without warning.
'Excuse me?' Sean asked.
'I smell it on you the way I smelled it on James. You can hide it from others,
but not me. You were made what you are by circumstance, just like James. Only
you're not like him. He controlled his nature, his unacceptable instincts, but
you suppress yours. You live in fear of it, never embracing it. Such a waste.'
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'They trained you like a wild animal in captivity,' Gibran continued, his voice
aggressive now, assertive but still controlled. 'Taught you to conform, beat
you into submission with endless counselling and behaviour-suppressing drugs.
You could have been so much more than you are.'
'You know nothing about me,' Sean snarled.
'I know that every time you look at your children you think of your own
childhood. It was your father, wasn't it? Your abuser. It was your father who
touched you in those special places, who told you it was a special secret only
you and he shared. And as you grew older and didn't want to be touched, it was
your father who forced himself on you, who beat you when you said no.'
Sean could feel the blood draining from his face. How did Gibran know? How did
he know?
'You're finished.' He spat the words at Gibran.
'I was born the way I am,' Gibran snapped back. 'You were made by
circumstances, but made you were. How long can you deny your nature? How long
before your own hands reach out towards your children? How long before you and
they share a special secret they must never tell Mummy? That's why you were
able to see James for what he was, because every time you look in the mirror
you see James Hellier and all the other so-called killers you've locked away
staring back at you. But you never saw me, did you? You and he are mere
reflections of each other, whereas I am something you could never begin to
comprehend.'
Sean tried to jump to his feet, his hand already clenched into a fist. He felt
a heavy arm across his chest. Donnelly eased him back into his chair.
'Play your games, if you like,' Sean said, back in control of himself. 'But
it'll take more than games to stop you from going away for a very long time.'
'I don't think so.'
'Your arrogance is your undoing,' Sean told him. 'You didn't think you could
make mistakes, but you have. DS Jones is alive and she will recover. And when
she does, she'll confirm it was you who attacked her. Why? Because she saw your
face. You wanted her to see it was you. You wanted her to see her killer. You
wanted them all to see your face. Wanted it to be the last thing they ever saw.
You were too proud of yourself to hide behind a mask. The moment you allowed DS
Jones to escape, it was over for you.'
'I doubt DS Jones had more than a fleeting glimpse of her attacker,' Gibran
argued. 'And I understand the attack was at night, probably in poor light. How
could she be sure of anything? Her identification would be useless.'
'And there'll be security tapes from the underground,' Sean continued. 'Tapes
that will show you following Linda Kotler. Now we know who to look for, it'll
be only a matter of time before we find you on those tapes.'
'So maybe you can prove I was in the area. Hardly enough to convict a man of
murder.'
'There'll be tapes from the club Daniel Graydon was in the night he died. And
what about the bouncers there? What if they can pick you out of an
identification parade?'
'What if they can, Inspector?' Gibran smirked. 'You have nothing.'
'You're forgetting about the visit you paid DS Jones in Intensive Care. The
police constable you killed there. You were still wearing his uniform when you
were arrested. Mistakes, Sebastian. Too many mistakes. Too much evidence to
explain away. Not to mention the syringe taped to your chest.'
'A harmless, empty syringe,' Gibran explained.
'We've already spoken to the medical staff. If you'd injected air into Sally's
bloodstream it would have almost certainly caused a heart attack or stroke. She
would have died and nobody would have known it was murder. With DS Jones dead,
you could have melted into the background, leaving Hellier to take the fall.'
'Theories and hopes, Inspector. That's all you have.'
'And the uniform you were wearing?'
'Then charge me with impersonating a police officer.'
'You killed a man and took his uniform.'
'Prove that, can you? That I killed him? Do you really have indisputable
evidence of that? My fingerprints on the murder weapon? My DNA on his body?
Maybe CCTV of me in the act, so to speak? But you don't, do you?'
Sean sat silently considering how best to play his final trump card, trying to
guess how Gibran would react. Would he grow angry and reveal his true self?
Would he be humbled and confess? Would he continue his calm ambiguous denials?
Slowly, deliberately he pulled a transparent evidence bag from his jacket
pocket where it hung over the back of his chair. He casually tossed the bag
containing Sally's bloodied warrant card across the table.
Sean saw Gibran glance down at the bag. For the first time he thought he saw a
hint of confusion in his face.
'DS Jones's warrant card,' he said. 'Found hidden under the lining of a desk
drawer in your home. How did her warrant card find its way into your house?'
Gibran lifted the evidence bag and studied the contents. 'It appears I've
underestimated your determination,' he said.
'How did it get there?' Sean repeated the question he knew Gibran couldn't
answer.
'We both know that's not important,' Gibran answered. 'You will try and
convince a court that I took it as a trophy. That I took it because of a need
to maintain a connection to my victim. That I used it to help relive the night
when she should have died. They may believe you. They may not.'
'And what will you tell the court?' Sean asked. 'What will you tell them to
convince them you're not what I say you are?'
Gibran leaned forward, smiling confidently. Sean thought he could begin to
smell the same animal musk leaking from Gibran he'd smelled on Hellier.
'For that, Inspector,' Gibran said smugly, 'we'll all have to wait and see.
Won't we?'
Donnelly joined Sean in his office, where the pair of them sat listening to the
recording of Gibran's interview. When it concluded, Donnelly was first to speak.
'He told us fuck all.'
'He was never going to talk,' Sean said. 'But I needed to be near him for a
while. To watch him. Listen to him.'
'And?' Donnelly asked.
'He's our man. No doubts this time. Hellier was nothing more than his pawn.'
'Jesus,' Donnelly said. 'He must have spent years planning this. What sort of
man spends years planning to kill strangers?'
'One who never wants to stop,' Sean answered. 'He knew we would catch him
eventually, unless we weren't looking for him; and we'd only stop looking for
him once we had someone locked up. Someone we were convinced was guilty of the
murders. It nearly worked, too. I took the bait like a fool. Let my feelings
towards Hellier blind my judgement. I almost sent the wrong man to prison.'
'No one would have cried too much for Hellier,' said Donnelly.
Sean shook his head. 'That's not what bothers me,' he said. 'The only safe
place for Hellier is behind bars, but I almost missed Gibran, almost handed him
the whole game. If Sally hadn't survived, who knows? Maybe we would never have
caught him.'
'But we did catch him,' Donnelly reminded him. 'You caught him.'
'I know, but how many people would still be alive if I hadn't wasted so much
time chasing Hellier?'
'None of them,' Donnelly answered unwaveringly. 'Gibran was a bolt of
lightning. He came from nowhere. We couldn't have caught him any sooner. It
wasn't possible. We did what we always do. We followed the evidence,
concentrated on the most likely suspect. We shook trees and waited to see what
would fall out. And eventually the right man did.
'If it had been anyone else in charge of the case, Gibran would still be out
there and Sally would be dead. You need to know that.'
'All the same, this doesn't feel like a success.'
'Does it ever?' Donnelly asked.
'No. I suppose not.'
'By the way, Steven Paramore turned up.'
'Who?' Sean asked, the name wiped from his memory.
'Remember, the guy recently released after serving eight for the attempted
murder of a gay bloke?'
'Yes. Sorry. I remember now.'
'Immigration nicked him coming back into the country on a false passport. He'd
been enjoying the pleasures of Bangkok for a couple of weeks. Another suspect
eliminated - not that you ever thought he was, right?' Sean didn't answer. 'How
did you know, by the way? How did you know Gibran would go after Sally?'
'Something Hellier said: that it could only be one man. Only one man knew so
much about him. Then I remembered Sally telling me about her meeting with
Gibran, the things he'd said about Hellier, deliberately feeding our
suspicions. It suddenly became so clear to me. Clear who the killer was and
even more clear that he would have to get to Sally, even if it meant revealing
that Hellier wasn't the real killer. At least he'd have stopped us discovering
it was him. You know, if Sally hadn't survived the night she was attacked,
Gibran would still be out there and we wouldn't have a bloody clue. Sally
getting out alive collapsed the foundations of everything Gibran had built.'
'Why do you think he chose Hellier?' Donnelly asked.
'Somehow he knew what Hellier was. The moment he met Hellier, he knew. There
was no way he could have pinned his crimes on some clean-living man on the
street. He needed someone we would believe in. Hellier was perfect. Maybe he
even found out about Hellier's real past. Who knows? But once he found him, he
showed his patience, his control. He spent years watching him, learning all he
could about him. Even made sure he was employed by Butler and Mason so he could
keep him close. And Hellier never suspected a thing, not until right at the end.
'I can't prove it yet, but I'm pretty damn sure Hellier's solicitor will turn
out to be a company man too. Butler and Mason would have been picking up his
tab, not Hellier. No doubt he was all too happy to keep Gibran informed of the
investigation's progress.'
'That would have been useful,' Donnelly said.
'Very,' Sean agreed. 'All we have to do is try and prove it, somehow.' He shook
the doubts away, for now at least.
'The hairs from Linda Kotler's flat?' he asked. 'I'm still waiting for someone
to explain how Hellier's hairs found their way into the crime scene.'
'Aye,' Donnelly said sheepishly. 'I was meaning to tell you about that.
Remember when we met Hellier at Belgravia?'
'Of course.'
'We took his body samples ...'
'I'm listening.'
'Including some head hair ...'
'Oh dear,' Sean said with a wry smile. 'Whose idea was that?'
'Mine. I figured it wouldn't hurt to keep a couple of hairs for ourselves,
leave them at an appropriate scene if things started getting desperate.'
'So you planted them at the Kotler scene for Dr Canning to find? Very nice.'
'No,' Donnelly said, 'not me. To tell you the truth, I wasn't convinced about
Hellier, so I held them back, but ...'
'But what?'
'I gave them to Paulo to look after, just until we needed them ...'
'And Paulo was convinced about Hellier and decided not to wait?'
'That's about the size of it.'
'He told you all this?'
'Aye. Once you nailed Gibran, Paulo 'fessed up. No need to panic, though - I've
already made it look like an administrative balls-up. As far as anyone will
ever know, Paulo accidentally sent the wrong samples to the lab. He mistook the
samples taken from Hellier for hairs gathered from the Kotler scene, so no
surprise they found a match. But it's covered. Trust me.'
'I take it he understands he'll have to explain this administrative balls-up in
court at the trial?'
'Aye,' Donnelly answered. 'He doesn't really have much choice.'
'Has he learnt his lesson?'
Donnelly knew what he meant. 'He was trying to do the right thing, but he won't
do it again, not without checking first.'
'Fine,' Sean said. 'I'll deal with it myself, before anyone has a chance to
make more of it. I'll make sure he knows when to and when not to give an
investigation a helping hand.'
'I owe you one,' said Donnelly.
'No you don't,' was Sean's reply.
'And what do we do about Gibran?'
'Run it past the CPS. Tell them we think we've got enough to charge him with
two counts. The attempted murder of Sally and the murder of PC O'Connor.' Sean
leaned back in his chair. 'At least we've got a decent chance of getting a
conviction there. While he's banged up on remand, we'll keep digging on the
other murders. Maybe we'll get lucky.'
'And if we don't?' Donnelly asked.
'Pray we get a friendly judge with the brains to read between the lines. If we
do, then Gibran will spend the rest of his natural behind bars.
'Changing subjects, is PC O'Connor's family being looked after?'
'As best we can,' Donnelly said. 'Family liaison's with them already, for what
it's worth.'
'Any kids?'
'Three.'
'Christ's sake.' Sean couldn't help but imagine his own family sitting, holding
each other, crying in disbelief as they were told he'd never walk through the
front door again. He felt sad to the pit of his stomach. 'Having a dead hero
for a father isn't going to be much use to them, is it?'
Donnelly shrugged an answer.
'Last but not least,' said Donnelly, 'what do we do about Hellier? Or rather,
Korsakov?'
'Leave him to DI Reger at Complaints. He can have Hellier and Jarratt as a
package, assuming he can find him. And good luck to him there.'
'That's the thing I don't get about Hellier,' said Donnelly. 'He had the money
and the means to disappear whenever he wanted. Why didn't he run when we first
came sniffing around him? Why didn't he just fuck off to the tropics then? Come
to think of it, why was he working for Butler and bloody Mason in the first
place? He didn't need the money, he already had a small fortune stashed where
the sun don't shine. He could have put his feet up on a beach someplace where
the sex is cheap and the booze is cold, and stayed there happily for the rest
of his natural. Why fuck around in London, pretending to be a financier? He may
have been a fraud, but he was still working for a living. It doesn't make
sense.'
But it did to Sean. The more he knew about Hellier, the more he understood him.
'It wasn't about the money with Hellier. For him it's the game, always the
game: proving he's smarter than everyone else.'
'Proving it to who?' Donnelly asked.
'To himself,' Sean answered. 'Always to himself. Proving to himself that
everything they said about him was wrong.'
'"They"?' Donnelly asked. 'Who are they?'
Sean had said enough. 'It doesn't matter. It's not important.'
'Whatever,' Donnelly dismissed it. 'Anyway, speaking of Hellier, Korsakov,
whoever the bloody hell he really is, how do you suppose he got to the hospital
so soon after we did?'
'Nothing surprises me when it comes to Hellier. Maybe we should check to see if
any of our fast response cars are missing.' Sean managed a slight grin.
'Indeed,' Donnelly replied and stood to leave, but stopped in the doorway.
'What was all that about, by the way?' he asked. 'In the interview, when Gibran
started saying all that shit about your childhood and how you and Hellier were
the same?'
'It was nothing,' Sean told him, his voice a little too loud. 'It meant
nothing. Just rantings. Gibran's last chance to try and do some harm.'
'Aye,' Donnelly responded. 'That's what I thought.' As he turned to leave
Sean's office, he almost walked into Featherstone. 'Guv'nor,' he acknowledged.
Featherstone nodded his appreciation and watched Donnelly leave before turning
to Sean. Without speaking, he closed the door and took a seat. Sean had no idea
whether he was about to be praised or pilloried.
Finally Featherstone spoke. 'Ordinarily, I'd say congratulations - but I'm
betting that would feel rather hollow right now.'
'It would,' Sean agreed.
'No one could have done a better job,' Featherstone reassured him. 'You
displayed some, shall we say, unusual insights. Had you not, Gibran would still
be out there. I think you've saved some lives today, Sean.' He didn't answer.
'Anyway,' Featherstone continued, 'the real hard work starts now, yes? So I'll
leave you to get on with it, but don't kill yourself. This would be a good
point to practise the art of delegation. Your team's capable. You need to get
that hand seen to and to get some rest. Spend a little time at home. You'll
feel better for it.'
'I'll see what I can do,' Sean promised.
Featherstone rose to leave, then sank back into his uncomfortable chair. 'One
more thing you should know.' His words made Sean lean away from him. 'Your ...
shall we say, special talents have been noticed. Certain people have begun to
take an interest in you.' Featherstone wasn't smiling.
'Such as who?' Sean asked.
'People within the service, mainly. Our seniors, sitting in their ivory towers
at the Yard.'
'Mainly?' Sean asked.
'Sorry?' Featherstone replied.
'You said people mainly in the service. Who outside would be taking an
interest?'
'Nobody who wants to do you any harm,' Featherstone answered. 'We all work
together these days. Partnership approach, remember? My advice - if you want it
- is to play the game when you have to and don't be surprised if a few
high-profile, interesting cases start finding their way to your door. Well,
I'll let you get on, but don't forget what I said about getting some rest.'
Sean watched silently as Featherstone rose and left, his eyes following him
until he could see him no more.
He knew what Featherstone was telling him - he was about to become a tool, a
commodity not to be wasted on tick-the-box murder investigations, where husband
kills wife, drug dealer kills drug dealer. They would use him. A freak to catch
freaks.
Epilogue
Strong turbulence shook the twin-engine jet and woke Hellier from a light
sleep. He could hear the concerned voices of his fellow passengers,
unaccustomed to the shaking passenger planes received as they approached
Queenstown Airport on New Zealand's South Island. He peered out of the window
and saw the Remarkables mountain range stretching as far as he could see to the
south. From peak to base the mountains were reflected in the still, clear
waters of Lake Wakatipu. He had left behind a Northern Hemisphere summer and
arrived in the middle of the Southern Hemisphere winter. The mountains were
covered in snow, which was what most of his fellow passengers had come for. But
not Hellier. The plane's PA system advised the passengers to prepare for
landing in five minutes. Reluctantly he fastened his seat belt and stared out
of the window, a slight smile on his face, oblivious to the stomach-churning
buffeting as the winter winds gripped the jet. Finally they bumped to ground,
the engines roaring in reverse to halt the plane on the short, perilous runway.
His fellow passengers breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Thirty-six hours ago Hellier had been on the other side of the world. Soon he
would be safe in his long-ago established retreat. He had flown from London to
Singapore using a British passport, but instead of catching a connecting
transfer flight to his destination he had taken his carry-on suitcase
containing a change of clothing and toiletries, and passed through Customs and
Immigration. Outside the airport he had hailed a cab that took him through the
shining skyscraper metropolis Singapore had become, a soulless, generic New Age
Eastern business centre.
Finally he arrived in Old Chinatown, with its mix of Chinese, Malay and Indian
architecture. Bustling brown-skinned people filled the streets, trading,
talking, eating, living. These streets suited him far better than the glass
valleys that filled the rest of the island. He'd made his way to a nondescript
ornament and souvenir shop in Temple Street. The owner recognized him
immediately and fetched a safe box that he handed to Hellier. He'd placed his
British passport in the box, and taken out an Australian one in the name of
Scott Thurston. Then he made his way back to the airport. Two hours later he
was flying Air New Zealand business class to Auckland.
After an eleven-hour flight he touched down at Auckland International Airport
feeling refreshed and alive, having slept most of the way. Once again, rather
than take a direct transfer flight, he'd cleared Immigration and exited the
airport. A cab driven by an over-talkative Samoan took him to Mount Eden, an
area popular with young, successful Aucklanders. The owner of the antiques shop
almost froze with fear when he saw Hellier enter. He needn't have been afraid;
within minutes, Hellier was heading back to the airport to catch his flight to
Queenstown. This time he travelled under a New Zealand passport bearing his
photograph and the name Phillip Johnston.
Now he walked through the Domestic Arrivals exit at Queenstown Airport without
attracting a second glance from the security services casually floating around
the terminal. People came here for a good time; summer or winter, it didn't
matter. Nobody expected trouble. Nobody suspected who or what he was.
A short cab ride took him to the offices of a property letting and management
agency in the centre of town. Hellier entered Otago Properties Ltd and scanned
the premises for familiar faces. The middle-aged man recognized him at the same
time as Hellier spotted him. Both men smiled, the manager getting to his feet
and striding across the office, hand outstretched in friendship. Hellier
accepted it.
'Bloody hell, Phillip Johnston, where the hell have you been?' the manager said
in his nasal South Island accent. 'I thought you must be dead!'
'Not yet,' Hellier answered. 'Not yet.'
Twenty minutes later, he used the key he'd collected from Otago Properties to
open the heavy wooden door of the house built into the side of a mountain. He
stepped inside and spent several minutes surveying his surroundings, mentally
noting every item he saw. After a while he was satisfied everything was as it
should be. He dropped his suitcase and closed the front door, walking straight
through the house to the lounge and the panoramic view from the huge sliding
glass doors. A long wooden coffee table was positioned in front of the windows
surrounded by antique leather armchairs. A brand-new laptop computer sat in the
middle of the table, just as Hellier had arranged, its standby light blinking
green, drawing him towards it.
He stood over the computer and opened its lid, the screen immediately filling
with the site he'd programmed it to display from the other side of the world:
bank account details for Butler and Mason International Finance. The message on
the screen questioned him: Are you sure you want to continue with fund
transfers? He paused for a while, not wanting to rush this sweet moment. After
a minute or so he finally pressed the Enter button and watched, only his eyes
showing any emotion as they excitedly darted around the screen following the
rows and columns of numbers as they gradually fell away to zero. Tens of
millions of pounds had flowed out of Butler and Mason's primary bank account
into accounts all around the world set up by Hellier. Not a penny of it entered
his own accounts; he already had more money than he could spend. It flowed into
the accounts of people he might need in the future: people of influence, people
who could get him things that would otherwise be difficult to obtain. And
millions more poured into the bank accounts of charities he cared nothing
about, under the guise of anonymous benefactors. And it was all absolutely
untraceable. When the transactions were complete, he turned the computer off
and unplugged it. He would throw it in the lake after nightfall. His face
showed no flicker of emotion, no happiness. Only a satisfied sigh betrayed his
pleasure.
He walked to the giant windows and undid the latches. Throwing the doors open,
he stepped out on to a balcony the size of a tennis court. The lake and the
mountains stretched out before him as far as he could see. Seemingly miles
below, the TSS Earnslaw, a hundred-year-old steamship, left a shallow wake that
spread from shore to shore. He walked to the edge of the balcony and held the
rail. Closing his eyes, he allowed the freezing mountain air to hammer against
his body, sweeping away the stale air of long-haul travel.
Standing there on the balcony of his long-standing hideaway, his life in London
as James Hellier fast-forwarded through his mind, from its very beginning to
its very end. The time had come to kill James Hellier, to bury him where he
would never be found, just as he had done to Stefan Korsakov. James Hellier was
gone forever, and all that went with him. All, that was, but for two names:
Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan and Sebastian Gibran. Those two he would
never forget.
Hellier opened his eyes, stretched his arms into a crucifix position and began
to laugh.
Two weeks later
Sean sat alone in his office. He waded through a mountain of requests from the
Crown Prosecution Service, most totally unreasonable, nothing more than an
evidential wish list. It was clear they weren't entirely happy with the
evidence against Sebastian Gibran. Neither was he.
He thought of Sally. He missed having her around the place. Everyone did. He
wondered if he would ever see her barrelling around the office again, filling
it with life. She remained in Intensive Care, but she had phases of
consciousness and was expected to live. During one of those phases she had
confirmed that Gibran was her attacker.
A knock at his open door made Sean look up. A uniform constable he didn't
recognize stood waiting to be acknowledged.
'Yes?'
The constable entered and held an A4 brown envelope out for Sean to take.
'This arrived in the Front Office,' he said. 'It's addressed to you.'
Sean half-stood and leaned over his desk. More CPS requests, no doubt. Thanking
the constable, he took the envelope.
The exotic stamps told Sean this envelope didn't contain memos from the CPS, or
anything of that nature. It had been sent from Singapore. Placing the envelope
carefully on his desk, he patted it gingerly, feeling for small hard objects:
the telltale signs of a letter bomb. It was something he had never done before
Korsakov and Gibran came into his life.
There were no suspicious lumps. All the same, Sean opened it carefully, cutting
a fine edge away from the side of the envelope with a pair of scissors. He
avoided the folded areas where he was meant to tear it open. Just in case.
He remembered himself almost too late. Dropping the envelope, he pulled open
his bottom drawer and reached for the box of latex gloves kept there. He pulled
a pair on, his hands feeling instantly hot and sweaty. Then he picked the
envelope up and spilled the contents on to his desk.
The first items to emerge were photographs. Excellent quality. Colour. They
appeared to have been taken by a professional. He recognized both of the two
men in the shots: Paul Jarratt and Stefan Korsakov. The pictures formed a
sequence covering about thirty seconds. Korsakov handing Jarratt a plain brown
envelope. Jarratt opening it. Half-pulling fifty-pound notes from inside.
Pushing them back in. A handshake. Jarratt walking away. DI Reger would be very
interested in the pictures.
As he shuffled through the photographs, a folded piece of paper fell out. A
letter. He opened it. It had only been folded once. He saw the blue
handwriting, neat, but not ornate. Clear, but not printed. There was no
sender's name and address. It could only have been from one person. He began to
read.
Thought these might come in useful. I used them to ensure his loyalty for a
time, but I have no use for him now. He failed me. He shouldn't have done that.
I only regret I won't be able to give evidence at his trial.
Sorry about skipping off. I'm sure you understand. I had no intention of
becoming a corpse for the media vultures to pick over. Your fault entirely. I
haven't forgotten.
Imagine Gibran thinking he could outwit me. I look forward to seeing him again.
I'll have a nice little surprise waiting for that jumped-up fucker.
How are my wife and children? Crying for my return, no doubt. They don't know
what they pray for. If they did, they wouldn't.
I'm sure we'll meet again. I feel I still owe you something.
Sean held the letter for a long time. He had hoped he'd heard the last of
Stefan Korsakov, but in his heart he knew he hadn't. Korsakov liked games too
much.
His desk phone rang, making him jump. He tossed the letter aside and answered.
It was Kate.
'How you doing today?' she asked. She had called him a lot more often these
last two weeks. He used to seem so invulnerable. Now there was something
tenuous about him. As if he might easily be snatched away.
'I'm doing all right,' he said, before she could continue. 'Listen, I was
thinking. Maybe we should get out of London.'
'And move where?' Kate asked.
'Well,' Sean answered, 'I got an email the other day. The police in New Zealand
are looking to recruit British cops. I can even do a direct transfer as a DI.
We'd get full residency. The kids would love it.'
'And me?' Kate asked.
'Come on, Kate,' he reassured her. 'You're a doctor. There isn't a country in
the world doesn't want more doctors.'
'What brought this on?' Kate asked cheerfully.
Sean looked at the letter on his desk. 'Nothing,' he lied, remembering how
close he'd been to falling off the edge - remembering being alone in the
toilet, staring into the mirror and seeing the swirling darkness of his nature.
'I guess I'm just sick of the traffic.'
Free, I was a thing of nightmares. Now, in my cage, I have become the object of
morbid fascination. You lock me away to lock your fears away. You view me from
a safe distance. The newspapers and television your window into my cage. The
gaps between the bars through which you peer.
And what is it that scares you most? Is it that there's a little bit of me in
all of you? That little bit of madness waiting to be let loose? When that
person standing too close on the underground stamps on your foot, they
apologize and you tell them it's all right. It doesn't matter, but really you
want to stamp on their head until blood and brains cover your feet, but you
swallow the violence down. Keep the madness deep inside.
As for me, I'm not finished yet. The British legal system will give me a
chance. Anything is possible. The judge will call my arrest and prosecution a
travesty. The police will be lambasted. The media will rally to my cause. I'll
be interviewed by Jeremy Paxman. I'll walk free from the court. Will there be
cheering crowds? So many other killers have been greeted by cheering crowds,
why not me? I'll raise my arms in victory as I walk towards the waiting
photographers. I'll call to them. 'Innocent. Proven innocent.'
COMING SOON
The new Sean Corrigan novel
THE KEEPER
Read an exclusive preview now ...
1
Thomas Keller walked along the quiet suburban street in Anerley, South East
London, an area that provided affordable housing to those attracted to the
capital who discovered that they could only afford to live on its edges,
financially excluded from the very things they had come to London for in the
first place. He knew Oakfield Road well, having walked its length several times
over the previous few weeks and he knew which house Louise Russell lived in.
Keller was cautious. Although he knew he drew little attention dressed as he
was in his Post Office uniform, this was not his normal route. Someone might
realise he shouldn't be here and that the mail had already been delivered
earlier that morning. But he couldn't wait any longer [?] he needed Louise
Russell today.
As he approached number twenty two he was sure to drop some post through the
letter-boxes of the neighbouring houses, just in case a bored old resident had
nothing to do other than spy on the street where nothing happened anyway. As he
posted junk mail his eyes flicked at the windows and doors of the ugly new
brick buildings, built for practicality with no thought of individuality or
warmth. Their design provided excellent privacy and that had made Louise
Russell even more attractive to him.
As he drew near to number twenty-two, his excitement and fear were both rising
to levels he could barely control, the blood pumping through his arteries and
veins so fast it hurt his head and blurred his vision. He quickly checked
inside his postal delivery sack, moving the junk mail aside and touching the
items he'd brought with him for reassurance [?] the electric stun-gun he'd
bought on one of his few holidays outside of Britain; the washing up bottle
that contained chloroform; a clean flannel; a roll of heavy-duty masking tape
and a thin blanket. He would need them all soon, very soon.
Only a few steps to the front door now and he could sense the woman inside,
could taste and smell her. The architecture of the soulless house meant that
once he had reached the front door he could not be seen from the street and nor
could Louise Russell's red Ford Fiesta. He held his hand up to ring the
doorbell, but paused to steady himself before pressing the button attached to
the door frame, in case he needed to speak to her before she would open the
door to him. After what felt like hours to him he finally pressed it and waited
as a jerky shadow moved from the bowels of the house towards the front door. He
stared at the opaque glass window in the front door as the shadow took on
colour and the door began to open without hesitation or caution. He hadn't had
to speak after all. Now at last she stood in front of him with nothing between
the two of them, nothing that could keep them apart any longer.
He stood silently, in awe of her. It felt like her clear, shining green eyes
were pulling him forward, towards her glowing skin, her pretty feminine face.
She was only a little smaller than he, about five foot six, and slim, with
straight brown hair cut into what was nearly a bob. She was about the same age
as he was too, twenty-eight years old. He began to tremble now, not with fear
anymore, but with joy. She smiled and spoke to him. 'Hi. Do you have something
for me?'
'I've come to take you home Sam,' he told her. 'Just like I promised I would.'
Louise Russell smiled through her confusion. 'I'm sorry,' she told him. 'I
don't think I understand.'
She saw his arm moving quickly towards her and tried to step back, away from
the threatening-looking black box he held in his hand, but he'd anticipated she
would and he stepped forward to match her stride. When the box touched her
chest it felt like she'd been hit by a wrecking ball. Her feet left the ground
as she catapulted backwards and landed hard on the hallway floor. For a few
blissful moments she remembered nothing as her world turned to black, but
unconsciousness didn't spare her from reality for long. When her eyes opened
again she somehow knew she hadn't been out for long and that she was still
unable to command her own movements as her body remained in spasm, her teeth
clenched together preventing her from screaming or begging. But her eyes were
still her own and they could see everything as the man dressed like a postman
busied himself around her prone body. His stained, buckled teeth repulsed her,
as did the smell of his unwashed body. As his head passed close to her face she
could see and smell his short, un-kept brown hair, strands of which stuck to
his forehead with sweat. His skin was pale and unhealthy and appeared quite
grey, marked with acne and chicken pox scars. His hands were bony and ugly, too
long and thin, the skin almost transparent, like an old person's. Long dirty
fingernails fidgeted at things he was taking from his post-bag. Everything
about him made her want to push him away, but she was trapped in the
unrelenting grip of whatever he'd touched her with. And all the time he spoke
to her using the name of another as the pictures adorning the walls she knew so
well stared down at her - happy photographs of her with her husband, her
family, her friends. How many times had she passed the pictures and not taken
time to look? Now, paralysed on the floor of her own home, her sanctuary, those
same pictures mocked her from above.
'It'll be alright Sam,' he promised. 'We'll get you home as soon as we can,
okay. I'll get you in the car and then it's only a short trip. Please don't be
scared. There's no need to be scared. I'm here to look after you.'
He was touching her, his damp hands stroking her hair, her face, his heavy
breaths invading her senses and turning her stomach. She watched through wild
eyes as he took hold of her arms and crossed them at the wrists over her chest,
his fingers lingering on her breasts. He began to unroll a length of wide,
black masking tape from a thick roll he'd brought with him. She prayed silently
inside her frozen body, prayed that her husband would appear in the doorway and
beat this animal away from her. She prayed to be free from this hell and the
hell that was about to happen, because now she knew, she understood clearly, he
was going to take her away with him. Her pain and terror weren't going to be
over quickly in a place she had no fear of. No, he was going to take her away
from here, to a place she could only imagine the horror of. A place she might
never leave, alive or dead.
Through her physical and mental agony she suddenly began to feel her body's
control returning to her, the muscles relaxing all over her being, her jaw and
hands beginning to unclench, her spine beginning to loosen and straighten, the
unbearable cramp in her buttocks finally receding, but she was betrayed by her
own recovery as her lungs allowed a long breath to escape. He heard her.
'No, no. Not yet, Sam,' he told her. 'Soon, but right now you just need to
relax and let me take care of everything. I swear to you everything will be
just the way we wanted it to be. You believe that, don't you, Sam?'
His voice was a menacing mix of apparent genuine concern, even compassion, and
a threatening tone that matched the deep hate in his eyes. If she could have
answered him she would have agreed with anything he said, so long as he would
let her live. She felt rape was a certainty now, her mind instinctively
preparing her for that, but her very life, her existence, she would do
everything she could to preserve that: she would do anything he asked.
He carefully placed the tape he was holding on the floor next to her and took a
washing-up liquid bottle from his bag and a rag of material. He squirted clear
liquid onto the rag. 'Don't fight this, Sam. Just breathe normally, it's better
that way.' Even before the rag covered her mouth and nose she could smell its
pungent hospital aroma. She tried to hold her breath, but could only manage a
few seconds before the chloroform fumes swept into her lungs and invaded her
bloodstream. She sensed unconsciousness and welcomed it, but before the
sanctity of sleep could descend he pulled it away. 'Not too much,' he said.
'You can have some more when you're in the car, okay?'
She tried to look at him, to focus on his movements, but his image was
distorted and his voice warped. She blinked to clear her sight as the first
effects of the chloroform began to lessen. She recovered in time to see him
binding her wrists together with the tape. Then his hands moved towards her
face, holding something between them. She tried to turn away from them, but it
was useless as she felt the tape being plastered across her mouth, the panic of
impending suffocation pressing down on her empty lungs like a tonne weight, the
chloroform preventing her thinking rationally or calming herself so she could
breathe.
'Relax,' he assured her. 'Relax and breathe through your nose, Sam.' She tried,
but panic and fear still refused to allow her sense of self-preservation to
ignite.
Suddenly he moved away from her, searching through her handbag and then the set
of drawers next to the front door. Quickly he returned having found what he was
looking for [?] her car keys.
'We need to go now, Sam,' he told her. 'Before they try and stop us again.
Before they try and keep us apart. We need to hide from them, together.'
He struggled to get her to her feet, pulling her torso off the ground by
gripping and tugging at her top, her near dead weight almost too much for his
slight physique to bear. Finally he managed to wrap her right arm around his
neck and began to pull her from the ground.
'You have to help me, Sam. Help me get you up.'
Through her confusion and fear she could hear the growing anger in his voice
and something told her she had to get up if she was to survive the next few
moments of this hell. She struggled to make her legs work, the tape around her
wrists preventing her from using her arms for balance or leverage, her unsteady
feet slipping on the wooden floor.
'That's good, Sam,' the madman encouraged her. 'Almost there, just a little bit
more.'
She sensed she was on her feet now, but the world still span wildly, making her
unsure of anything as she began to walk, moving forward into the bright light
beyond the home that should have protected her. The light and air helped clear
her mind further and she could see she was standing at the rear of her own car
while her attacker fumbled with her car keys. She heard the car alarm being
deactivated and the hatchback door popping open.
'You'll be safe in here, Sam. Don't worry, we haven't got far to go.'
She realised his intentions but only managed to mumble 'No,' behind her taped
mouth before he held her shoulders and carefully pushed her towards the
opening, making her lose her balance and fall into the back of the car. She lay
there, her eyes pleading with the man not to take her from her home. It was the
last thing she remembered before the chloroform soaked rag once more pressed
into her face, only this time he held it there until unconsciousness rescued
her from perdition.
He looked at her for as long as he dared, all the time smiling, almost laughing
with happiness. He had her back now, now and forever. He pulled the thin
blanket from his sack and carefully spread it over her prostrate body before
closing the hatch door. He jumped into the driver's seat and struggled to put
the key in the ignition, excitement making his hands shake almost
uncontrollably. At last he managed to start the car and drive away calmly,
slowly, so as not to draw any attention. Within minutes he would swap Louise
Russell's car for his own and then, soon after that, he would be at home with
Sam. At home with Sam for the rest of her life.
Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan sat inside court three at the Central
Criminal Court, otherwise known as the Old Bailey, named after the City of
London street it dominated. Despite all the romance and mystique of the famous
old court, Sean disliked it, as did most seasoned detectives. It was difficult
to get to and there was absolutely no parking within miles. Getting several
large bags of exhibits to and from the Bailey was a logistical nightmare no cop
looked forward to. Other courts across London might be more difficult to get a
conviction at, but at least they provided some damn parking.
It was Wednesday afternoon now and he'd been hanging around the court doing
little more than nothing since Monday morning. Sean looked around the
courtroom, oblivious to its fine architecture. It was the people inside the
room he was interested in judging. There was another lull in the legal
arguments as the prosecuting barrister shuffled through his papers looking for
something the defence had requested a copy of.
Sean watched the judge reading, the silence of the court broken only by the
occasional shuffling of a page. He thought about the investigation to catch
Gibran, all that had been sacrificed by so many to bring him to this court
today. The lives that had been lost and nearly lost. The families that would
never recover from Gibran's crimes. And now it all came down to this: a
bored-looking judge and the fact the defence had more time and money to prepare
their case than the prosecution. It was never going to be a fair fight, but
Sean had won many an unfair fight before and the excited pounding of his heart
told him he hadn't given up on getting what he wanted out of the legal system
in this case.
Finally the judge put the Probation Service report to one side and once more
looked over the court before speaking. 'I've considered all submissions in this
matter and have given particular weight to the psychological reports in
relation to Mr Gibran's mental state now and at the time these crimes, these
serious and terrible crimes, were committed. I understand that the victims and
the families of the victims would wish to see the defendant tried in a court of
law for his crimes, but under British law I am obligated to first establish
that the defendant is indeed sufficiently sound of mind to understand the
gravity of the crimes they are accused of and that they are able to truly
understand the very process of a criminal trial.
'In the case of this defendant, on the basis of the opinions of the expert
witnesses for the defence, namely those of the psychologists who examined Mr
Gibran, it is my conclusion that Mr Gibran is not fit to stand trial at this
time and should be further treated for what are apparently serious
psychological conditions. Does anybody have any further submissions before we
conclude this matter?'
Sean felt his excitement turn to heavy disappointment, his stomach feeling
knotted and empty. His attention was immediately pulled back to proceedings as
the prosecution barrister got to his feet.
'My Lord,' he pleaded. 'If I could draw your attention to page twelve of the
probation report, it may assist the court.'
The court fell silent again except for more shuffling of papers as the judge
found page twelve and read. After a few minutes he spoke to the prosecuting
barrister. 'Yes, thank you Mr Parnell, that does indeed assist the court.
The judge looked to the back of the room where Gibran sat motionless and calm.
'Mr Gibran,' the judge addressed him, speaking as softly as distance would
allow, already treating him like a psychiatric patient rather than a murder
suspect. 'I have decided that in this case you will not be standing trial for
the crimes you have been charged with as I have serious doubts over whether you
would be able to comprehend what would be happening to you and defend yourself
adequately from those charges. Therefore it has been decided that you should
receive further psychiatric treatment. It is my job to exercise the powers
under the Mental Health Act and place you in the hands of those best able to
help you.'
The judge considered asking Gibran if he understood, but realised the
contradiction before doing so. 'Your barrister, Mr Dolby will explain things
more fully in time. However, I have noted that the Probation Service has
expressed serious concerns about you being both a danger to yourself and to the
public.' Sean's emptiness left him as quickly as it had arrived, squeezed out
by the excitement again spreading through his core. He didn't care who the
turnkeys were, prison officers or nurses, just so long as Gibran was locked
away behind bars, forever. The judge continued. 'I can't ignore the risk you
represent and must balance that with your need to receive treatment. Therefore
you will be detained under the Mental Health Act in a secure Psychiatric Unit
for an indefinite period. Should you in the future be deemed to have made
sufficient progress towards recovery then it will be considered again as to
whether you should stand trial or indeed be released back into the community.
Very good.' With that the judge stood to signify an end to proceedings.
Everyone in the court stood simultaneously to show their respect.
Sean was the last to his feet, a suppressed smile thinning his lips as he
looked to the dock and Gibran who sensed Sean's attentions and returned his
look. The two men stared at each other, Sean resisting the temptation to blow
Gibran a kiss. Instead he whispered under his breath 'Have fun in Broadmoor,
you fuck.' The two men's eyes remained locked together as the guards led Gibran
from the dock towards the holding cells that lay under the old court. Sean knew
it would almost certainly be the last time he ever saw Sebastian Gibran.
The past few months raced through Sean's mind as he gathered his files,
stuffing them into his old, worn-out briefcase that looked more like a child's
oversized satchel. He headed for the exit, keen to avoid the few journalists
who had been allowed into the court, stopping en route to quickly shake the
prosecuting counsel's hand and to thank him for his efforts, as unimpressive as
they had been. He walked from the court room at a decent pace, scanning the
second-floor hallway for journalists or family members of Gibran's victims,
neither of whom he wanted to speak to now, at least not until he'd spoken to
one of his own. He walked through the main part of the court open to the public
and into the bowels of the Bailey, a labyrinth of short airless, lightless
corridors that eventually led him to a Victorian staircase that he climbed
until he reached an inconsequential looking door. Sean pushed the door open and
entered without hesitation, immediately hit by the noise of the police
chitter-chatter that could barely be heard on the other side of the door.
The little 'police only' canteen had long been part of police myth and legend,
as well as serving the best carvery meat in London. It didn't take long for
Sean to find Detective Sergeant Sally Jones sitting alone in the tiny, warm
room, nursing a coffee. She sensed Sean enter and looked straight at him. He
knew she would be reading his face, seeking answers to her questions before she
asked them. Sean weaved his way through the tightly packed tables and chairs,
apologising when necessary for disturbing the rushed meals of busy detectives.
He reached Sally and sat heavily opposite her.
'Well?' Sally asked impatiently.
'Not fit to stand trial,' Sean told her.
'For fuck's sake,' Sally said, loudly enough to make the other detectives in
the canteen look up, albeit briefly. Sean looked around the room, a visual
warning to everyone not to interfere. 'Jesus Christ,' Sally continued. 'What's
the fucking point?'
Sean noticed Sally unconsciously rubbing the right side of her chest, as if she
could feel Gibran hammering the knife into her all over again. 'Come on,
Sally,' Sean encouraged. 'We always knew this was a possibility. Once we'd seen
the psychiatric reports it was more of a certainty.'
'I know,' Sally agreed with a sigh, still rubbing her chest. 'I was fooling
myself that common sense might break out in the judicial system. I should have
known better.'
'It is entirely possible he is actually mad,' Sean told her.
'He is completely fucking mad,' Sally agreed again. 'But he's also absolutely
capable of standing trial. He knew what he was doing when he did what he did.
There were no voices in his head. He's as clever as he is dangerous, he's faked
his psych results, made a joke out of their so-called tests. He should stand
trial for what he did to...' Her voice tailed away as she looked down at the
cold coffee on the table in front of her.
'He's not getting away with it,' Sean assured her. 'He's been detained under
the Mental Health Act at Her Majesty's pleasure, indefinitely. He's never
coming out, Sally. While we're sitting here he's already on his merry way to
the secure wing at Broadmoor. Once you go in there you never come out.' The
faces of some of England's most notorious murderers and criminals flashed
through Sean's mind: Peter Sutcliffe aka The Yorkshire Ripper, Michael Peterson
aka Charles Bronson, Kenneth Erskine aka The Stockwell Strangler, Robert Napper
the killer of Rachel Nickell - all inmates of Broadmoor. Sally's voice brought
him back.
'Gibran killed a police officer and damn nearly killed me. He'll be a bloody
God in there.'
'Don't be so sure,' Sean argued. 'I went to Broadmoor once to interview an
inmate. That place scared the hell out of me, I don't mind telling you or
anyone else. The rest of his life is going to be hell on earth.'
Sean's phone began to vibrate silently in his jacket pocket. The number was
withheld, meaning it was probably someone calling from their Murder
Investigation Team Incident Room back at Peckham Police Station. Sean answered
without ceremony and recognised the voice of the caller immediately with its
strange mixture of Glaswegian and cockney. DS Dave Donnelly only ever called
for a good reason.
'Guv'nor. Superintendent Featherstone wants to see you back here asap.
Apparently something's come up that requires our specialised skill set.'
'Meaning we're the only soldiers left in the box.'
'So cynical for one so young, guv.'
'We'll be about an hour, travelling time from the Bailey,' Sean informed him.
'We're all finished here anyway.'
'That doesn't sound good.'
'I'll explain when I see you.' Sean hung up.
'Problem?' Sally asked.
'When is it ever anything else?'
Louise Russell's eyes began to flicker open, her mind desperately trying to
drag her from the chemically-induced sleep that held nothing but nightmares of
smothering and darkness, of a monster in her own home, of fear and confusion.
She tried to see into the gloom of her surroundings, the blinking of her eyes
beginning to slow until finally they remained frozen wide open with terror. My
God, he had taken her, taken her away from her home, her husband, her life. The
fear fired through her like electricity, making her want to jump up and run or
fight, but the after effects of the chloro-form weighed her down. She managed
to push herself onto her hands and knees before slumping onto her side, using
her forearm as a makeshift pillow. Her breathing was too rapid and irregular,
her heart beat the same. She tried to concentrate on conquering her fear, to
slow the rise and fall of her chest. After a few minutes of lying still and
calm, her breathing became more relaxed and her eyes better able to focus on
her new surroundings.
There were no windows in the room and she couldn't see a door, only the foot of
a flight of stairs she imagined would lead to a door and a way out. One
low-voltage bulb hung from the high ceiling, smeared with dirt, its light just
enough for her to see by as her eyes began to adjust. As far as she could tell
the room was little more than thirty feet wide and long, with cold unpainted
walls that looked as if they'd been white washed years before, but now the reds
and greys of old bricks were showing through. The floor appeared to be solid
concrete and she could feel the cold emitting from it; the only noise in the
room, water running down a wall and dripping onto the floor, amplified by its
harshness. She felt like she must be underground, in a cellar or the old
wartime bunker of a large house. The room smelt of urine, human excrement and
unwashed bodies and, more than anything else, absolute fear.
Louise pulled the duvet that covered her up to her neck against the coldness of
her discoveries, only to add to her chill. She looked under the duvet and
realised all her clothes had been taken. The duvet smelt clean and comforting
against the cold stench of the room, but who would do this, take her clothes
but care enough to leave her a clean duvet to cover herself and keep out the
cold? Who and why? She closed her eyes and prayed he hadn't touched her,
touched her in that way. Her hand slowly moved down her body and between her
legs. She felt no pain, no soreness and she was dry. She was sure he hadn't
raped her. So why was she here?
As her eyes adjusted further to the gloom she discovered she was lying on a
thin single mattress, old and stained. He had left a plastic beaker of what
looked and smelt like fresh water, but the thing she noticed most, the one
thing that brought tears stinging to her eyes, was when she realised she wasn't
just in this terrible room, she was locked in a cage inside the room. All
around her was thick wire mesh interwoven through its solid metal frame, no
more than six feet long and four feet wide. She was locked inside some sort of
animal cage, which meant there were only two possibilities: he'd left her here
to die, or he would be coming back, coming back to see the animal he'd caught
and caged, coming back to feed his prize, coming back to do to her whatever he
wanted.
She wiped her tears on the duvet and once again tried to take in all her
surroundings, looking for any sign of hope. She realized that one end of her
cage must be the way out as it was blocked with a padlocked door. She also
noticed what appeared to be a hatch in the side, presumably for safe passage of
food between her and her keeper. Fear swept up from the depths of her despair
and overwhelmed her. She virtually leapt at the door, pushing her fingers
through the wire mesh and closing her fists around it, shaking the cage wildly,
tears pouring down her cheeks as she filled her lungs ready to scream for help.
But she didn't. She'd heard something, something moving somewhere in the room.
She froze. She wasn't alone. She looked deep into the room, her eyes almost
completely adjusted to the low light levels now, listening hard for more
sounds, praying they wouldn't come. But they did, something moving. Her eyes
focused on where the sounds had come from and she could see it now, on the far
side of the room, another cage, as far as she could tell identical to the one
she was locked inside. My God, was it an animal in there? Was she being kept
with a wild animal? Was that why he'd taken her, to give her to this animal?
Driven by panic she started shaking her cage door again, although she knew it
was futile. The sound of a voice made her stop. A quiet, weak voice. The voice
of another woman.
About the Author
Luke Delaney joined the Metropolitan Police Service in the late 1980s and his
first posting was to an inner city area of south-east London notorious for high
levels of crime and extreme violence. He later joined CID where he investigated
murders ranging from those committed by fledgling serial killers to gangland
assassinations.
Cold Killing is his first novel.
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents
portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
HarperCollinsPublishers
77-85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2013
Copyright (c) Luke Delaney 2013
Extract from The Keeper (c) Luke Delaney 2013
Luke Delaney asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Source ISBN: 9780007486069
EPub Edition (c) January 2013 ISBN: 9780007486076
Version 1
FIRST EDITION
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive,
non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No
part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled,
reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and
retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or
mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written
permission of HarperCollins e-books.
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
http://www.harpercollins.com.au/ebooks
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
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http://www.harpercollins.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited
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Auckland, New Zealand
http://www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
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London, W6 8JB, UK
http://www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
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New York, NY 10022
http://www.harpercollins.com
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