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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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 caffè 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