DI Sean Corrigan Crime Series: 6-Book Collection: Cold Killing, Redemption of the Dead, The Keeper, The Network, The Toy Taker and The Jackdaw. Luke Delaney
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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.’