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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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